Obedience
by not a loser
Summary: (AU; New Orleans, 1964) Bravat is a phony exorcist who meets his first real demon and soon gets caught up in a supernatural struggle. Bravat/Sebastian [crossposted on ao3 at /works/7294459/chapters/16566205]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I would like to thank dorkshadows on tumblr for the inspiration for this story!**

 **Rated M, as all the best fics are, for language, alcohol use, tobacco use, probably drug use at some point, who knows with me, violence, sex, and adult themes.**

 **Also, though I have noticed they've been calling him "Blavat" in the official translations, I'll stick with "Bravat."**

* * *

Hazy white sunlight streamed in through the attic window, a grainy spotlight on the strange, gothic scene: three men, clad in old-fashioned black clerical robes, and a rangy, pinched-looking couple huddled together, all hunched over a thrashing figure on the bed at the head of the room.

"God, the father in heaven," The man who spoke first had wild, light hair, tinted purplish in the deep afternoon light. It lent him an ethereal air, otherworldly and reassuring against this unknown evil.

"Have mercy on us." The other priests responded solemnly, the girl's parents mumbling along a half-second off beat.

"God, the Son, Redeemer of the World."

"Have mercy on us." The parents spoke just as weakly as before, but in time with the priests.

The girl on the bed's thrashing increased in ferocity, the mattress squeaking pathetically in time with her movements. Her wrists and ankles were held to the bedposts with thick leather cuffs—"for everyone's safety," the light-haired man had said as he'd fastened them, when her mother had uttered a stifled noise of protest—but her back arched hideously, and her head whipped back and forth to a frantic tempo. Her mouth was opening and closing, her eyes rolling back in her head.

"God, the Holy Spirit."

"Have mercy on us." The shorter priest, with the soft brown hair and glasses, laid a hand on the mother's shoulder. Her hands were clasped together in fervent prayer.

"Holy Trinity, one God."

"Have mercy on us."

"Holy Mary, pray for us."

" _FUCK ME, SATAN,_ " the girl screamed in a raspy growl. Her mother let out a cawing sob; her father's mouth settled into a hard line.

"The demon is trying to provoke you," the glasses priest reminded the couple in a quiet voice, as the light-haired man continued with the Litany of Saints. "We are calling upon its enemies for strength; it senses defeat and it is trying desperately to fight us."

The parents wound more and more tightly into each other; they seemed so tense that they might snap in half.

" _FUCK YOUR FUCKING WHORE MOTHER!"_ the girl cried in that same hoarse voice—"not her voice, a strange man's voice"—the mother had said urgently, a rosary gripped tightly in her fist.

"From all evil, deliver us, O Lord." The room itself was sweaty, stifling. All but for the girl on the bed, the scene was preternaturally still, as if to counter those wild words and movements. The mother dabbed daintily at her eyes with a hankie that, despite its brief appearance, seemed worn and tired. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind; everything in the house, from the couple who owned it to the patchwork bedspread in the attic bedroom, seemed dilapidated.

All except their oldest daughter; she was too alive, too vibrant. Too full of ugliness and hate.

"I command you, unclean spirit," spoke the light-haired man in a booming, velvet voice. He plowed on faithfully as the girl screamed hideous curses at him. Patiently, he uncorked a crystal vial, sprinkling its contents over the girl, as he continued to speak. She screamed hideously, panting like a sick beast.

The parents excused themselves before the ritual was complete—the man claimed his wife didn't feel well, couldn't handle the stress—but relief had been written across his face as well.

At last, sweaty and stupefied from the filtered heat, the three men spoke the final words of deliverance. "Amen."

A silent, still tension followed, the girl limp in her restraints, breathing shallowly. They all breathed a sigh of relief. She would have nightmares, but she would awake whole, unaware of the possession, the memories and dreams falling away from her conscience like dead leaves.

They descended the stairs slowly, like old men. It's done, they said.

Finally, a soft breeze trickled in through the open windows, and the house began to cool down.

* * *

New Orleans was decaying, a moldy relic of a prosperity that had ended almost a hundred years ago.

A buyer's market, for sure: Bravat had gotten a great deal on his Creole townhouse.

The city was fitful; perhaps it was the blurry heat or the restless and angry dead, locked in their marble boxes above ground. The people sweated and cried out in church; they spoke in tongues and they got possessed by demons.

Except, of course, they didn't.

Bravat struck a match, a cinematic _schhick!_ and lit his ornate ivory pipe. He'd started smoking a pipe as a smirking in-joke with himself, and an in-joke it had remained: people assumed he was trying to fit in, trying to be a true Southern gentleman.

Oh well. The rush of nicotine hit him all the same.

He figured the girl was acting out; usually the really histrionic ones, the ones who shrieked obsceneties— _fuck me, satan_ , really, she must have read that in some dime-store paperback—were kids wound a little too tightly who'd found a way to have their cake and eat it, too. They could scream and rage for a little while, and then step right back into their neat little lives.

After he rounded the corner, he paused and swung off the dusty black robe he'd found at a church sale, the same one where he'd found his two assistants and a particularly nice flowerpot. The assistants were, unlike Bravat, real priests; maybe they even believed they were performing real exorcisms. But they didn't ask many questions, and they seemed pious and eager.

Beneath his robe he wore light linen trousers and a simple white shirt; its rolled-up sleeves revealed tattoos of the constellations. He tilted his head to look at the stars; hardly any were visible in the blurry summer sky. He lifted his pipe to his lips and ran the other hand through his spiky, purplish hair. He'd meant to bleach it blonde, but he'd mixed up the chemicals wrong. He quite liked the result.

The evening was a cacophony of quiet; bullfrog song, the faraway streetcars, and the muffled sounds of record players behind closed doors. That was something Bravat loved about the city: the heavy nights were always lush and alive. He began to whistle a snippet of an Irish drinking song as he approached the front door, nearly hidden behind a curtain of flowering vines that spilled from the top porch.

The front parlor where Bravat saw his clients was stuffy and oppressive, stained with the smell of incense and crowded with odd little knickknacks. By comparison, the kitchen at the rear of the house was fairly sparse: old-fashioned checkerboard tile; a rounded red refrigerator that had been scrounged from the curb where it had been abandoned; simple round wooden table with three chairs. But at least there was a fan in here. One of these days, he would really look into getting air conditioning.

He rummaged in the icebox and extracted a bottle of expensive Russian vodka and a jar of pickles. He sat at the table, alternately sipping and crunching. The next-door neighbor's jazz filtered in through the wall: Lester Young, maybe? He should really invest in a record player, too.

Outside, the darkness was coiling and alive.

* * *

First, he'd been an odd child: _Mommy, there's something on your shoulder._ Then he'd been a dreamy teenager, waltzing into medical school on the grace of his excellent scores and reverent letters of recommendation. He'd even watched a surgery, fervently taking notes from the top row of an operating theater.

He'd seen the things, winged, with dumb slobbering underbites and wickedly sharp talons, hovering over the body, waiting. He knew by then that he was supposed to ignore them, and he said nothing. When they'd dissected cadavers, he'd seen the skinny, snake-like things nibbling its organs and sipping its rancid blood.

Pointless, all of it. Bravat had lasted a year and a half, never quite able to roust himself from a warm night's blankets to return to school. He knew enough.

He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

The ladies wore heavy clothes, proper and rigorously feminine despite the heat. The base part of Bravat's brain couldn't help but appreciate the low necklines and pinching corsets that pushed busts up and out, and the beads of sweat dripping lasciviously along curves. The younger women forsook hosiery, and skirts and petticoats swished about shiny bare knees.

Though the sun had only just begun to set, the inside of the bar was dim and mercifully cool. The evening hadn't yet begun in earnest, and the jazz trio—three young black guys who played here every Friday night there wasn't football―was still setting up. Bravat waved hello, and they offered him a murmured round of greetings before returning to their instruments.

The place was integrated, a little oasis amid the outcry over desegregation. There was live music more often than not, and everyone was content to drink too much, laugh, and dance. The white bars were all too quiet and tense: a distinct sense that no one was having a good time. Doubly so for the ones in the wealthy neighborhoods.

Bravat grabbed a handful of peanuts, dropping the shells carelessly to the floor as he leaned against the bar, and ordered a vodka. No pickles, and the stuff he kept at home was much nicer, but he liked the live music and the chaos of people. He scoped out the room; about half the tables were full. Incubi and succubae were pooled hopefully in the dark corners, waiting.

He surreptitiously shooed a handful of them away from a dusty table and sat with his drink and the bowl of peanuts he'd swiped from the bartop. He watched the girls two tables away; one of them was already pink-cheeked, laughing and talking animatedly. Her companion seemed a little abashed by this, glancing around occasionally to see if anyone was reacting.

As the workday ended, people began to filter in, and soon the girls were hidden among the crowd. The music started, straight-ahead jazz, and a few people got up to dance while others clapped and cheered. Bravat lit his pipe and shut his eyes to listen.

"How about a cigarette instead?" A low, sultry voice cut through the din, and Bravat snapped to attention.

His heart pounded, hard, and a surge of adrenaline thudded through him like an aftershock.

It was a demon.

He was far too pale for the merciless sunshine, and his black hair was pulled back into a low, messy ponytail. He smiled wolfishly, his angular features almost aggressively inhuman.

"You..." he trailed off, wide-eyed.

The man lowered his eyelids the tiniest bit. His lashes were long and plush. "Sebastian."

Bravat glanced urgently around the room. "Sit down," he said. " _Sebastian_ ," he added dryly.

Reaching across the table, he grabbed the collar of the demon's fitted white tee-shirt and pulled him forward. "You are...not human, right?" he whispered.

The demon froze. He leaned back in his seat, giving Bravat a stunned, questioning look.

He waved a dismissive hand. "I can tell by looking. But yeah, I'm human." A smile crept onto his face. "And by the way, you might want to tone it down a little. I can't believe I'm the first one to call you out."

The demon's face became pouty. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

Bravat chuckled and took a sip of vodka. What a weird night. "I mean, your hair, your face, the way you talk. And you're way too pale."

"Well, it's too late to change that now." The demon's voice was clipped, irritated. "And _you_ were the one smoking that stupid pipe."

Bravat was unfazed. "Nice touch on the name, though. Suits you."

Still seeming a bit ill at ease, the demon extracted a cigarette from a plain leather case. He hesitated for a second, then offered one to Bravat.

He gestured with his pipe. "No thanks."

The demon continued to stare at him baldly. Clearly, he got the joke, and he didn't think it was funny. A bit cowed, Bravat pocketed it and accepted the cigarette. It felt oddly light and underwhelming. He smoked a bit clumsily, and the demon seemed amused. They were both quiet for a moment.

"So what do you want?" Bravat asked. "You must have come up to me for some reason."

The demon grimaced delicately. "Ah. I'd heard there was an exorcist in this neighborhood, a real miracle-worker. I figured it had to be you, based on the description."

"Kind of seems like playing with fire, doesn't it?" Bravat was overly casual and friendly, taking a drag from his cigarette. He could tell it annoyed the demon.

The demon glanced at him sharply. "How can you tell what I am? Can you see the others?" He gave a little jerk of his head out toward the bar, toward the incubi and succubae curled around their drunken prey.

"Yeah." He took a lengthy sip of his drink, the demon eyeing him intently. "Dunno, I've always been able to. Have to say though, you're my first demon."

The irony wasn't lost on either of them, and they shared a smirk before the demon grew serious again. His eyes were like dark wine under the greasy bar lights. "So you really just do exorcisms?"

Bravat stubbed out his cigarette. "Yeah, if you can call it that. Pays the bills. But, like I said, you're the first demon I've ever met." The thing eyed him warily for a moment. "Hang on, I need another drink." Bravat made a show of rattling the ice cubes around in his empty glass before sliding off the tall chair and wading through the crowd.

When he returned, the demon was still there. He seemed to have regained his composure, greeting Bravat with a haughty smile. Bravat set the fresh glass of vodka on the table and started to scramble back up into his chair when the demon picked it up and took a sip.

"Hey, that was mine!"

The demon shrugged, holding the glass with comfortable grace; posing.

Bravat huffed. "Whatever." He went straight back to the bar for another.

"So what are you doing here?" he asked without preamble when he returned.

The demon smiled slyly. "A man has needs." His voice was honeyed and sultry.

Bravat rolled his eyes. "Not _here_ here, demon. I mean in New Orleans, in the human realm?"

"It's Sebastian. I'll humor you, since you bought me a drink." He took a long sip of it, and Bravat crossed his arms sternly. The demon―Sebastian―seemed to be getting a little too confident that he held the upper hand. Bravat didn't like it.

Sebastian leaned in, the light forming a grungy halo around his dark hair. His eyes were half-lidded, sleepy. His lips parted. Bravat swallowed unconsciously. "I was bored."

Bravat let out a huff of breath, breaking the spell. "Whatever. You know what, it doesn't matter anyway. Have a nice night." He made to climb down from his chair.

"Shouldn't you pay for those?" Sebastian hadn't flinched at the outburst and was draped lazily in his chair.

Bravat knit his brows in annoyance. "I have a tab, and you're one to talk."

Still with that elegant and predatory air, Sebastian shifted, leaning over to fold his arms on the table and rest his head on them. "Maybe I was telling the truth. Or," his voice fell to a sharpened hush, "I was paying you back by not telling you."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I'm not impressed by favors from a demon."

Behind Sebastian's mock pout was a hint of sincere displeasure, quickly smoothed over into a flawless look of boredom. "Put it on my tab, then."

Bravat turned to leave, waving a hand carelessly behind him in parting.

* * *

Sebastian watched him, lighting another cigarette. _Interesting._

* * *

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

_The night was balmy, a petulant little breeze playing over the deck and tugging at Bravat's clothes as he stared out over the water. The sea sprawling out around them was infinitely, dizzyingly dark._

 _"Anything the matter, Doc?"_

 _Bravat started and turned, a little guiltily. He'd fibbed his way onto the ship as a medic, skirting rather delicately around the phrase "drop-out." He shrugged and resumed his study of the sky, elbows resting on the rusty metal railings._

 _He'd taken astronomy to fulfill an elective requirement―he'd always liked to look up at the stars―and random snippets would drift into his mind on these fitful nights spent aboveboard while the other men slept. "Do you know why they call it 'the dog days' of summer?" he asked by way of a reply._

 _Barney, the short-order cook, leaned against the railing next to Bravat, mirroring his position. He was probably only a few years older, but the soft beginnings of a paunch and his big laugh made him seem fatherly. "Dunno. Something to do with the sun, maybe?"_

 _"Sirius, the Dog Star, rises with the sun during the hottest months of summer. A part of_ Canis Major. _You can't see it now, though."_

 _Barney frowned softly, clearly not following, but responded with good grace. "I can never see what the constellations are supposed to be, anyway." He paused briefly. "It seems like you haven't slept since we left New York."_

 _In fact, this was not far from the truth. "They say the Dog Star brings fever, unease, madness." His voice was soft but measured. "Evil."_

 _Barney laughed uncomfortably. "That's too bad." He jutted his chin up at the hazy sliver of moon and changed the subject. "Looks like a storm is coming."_

 _Bravat nodded. He could feel it, the staticky unease in the air, the way sound seemed to travel a bit slower. "It's gonna be a bad one," he said at last._

 _They stood in silence for a while, Barney at last excusing himself to get ready for breakfast. The sun rose, and with it, the Dog Star._

* * *

A storm was coming, one of those big, fussy, Southern thunderstorms that blew in loudly and wore themselves out within an hour or two. The clouds over the city were swollen and pregnant, the air beneath breathlessly still.

Storms made New Orleans nervous. The city was built on low ground, snatched away from nature when her back was turned, everyone aware that she could take it back at any minute. The streets were busy, people rushing to finish their errands before the sky's capricious deadline.

Bravat hated to go along with any kind of collective paranoia, but he hated the idea of brackish drinking water even more; and so, he found himself buying purified water at the little grocery store two blocks away. He waited with mounting irritation behind a mousy middle-aged woman who was insisting that the club soda was on sale, while the cashier assured her that that had been last week.

"I'll just pay for it," he snapped finally. He'd been short-tempered for weeks now; since, if he cared to trace it back, the night he'd met a real demon over at Churchill's. He ignored her fluttering protests, leaning across her and throwing a handful of cash at the poor kid running the till.

He stalked home, wishing the sky would break already.

July was gleefully, vindictively hot. Every fan in Bravat's creaky old house was whirring, but it barely made an impact on the dead air. He slammed the water jugs in the icebox, and accidentally smashed his fingers in the door.

" _Fuck!"_ he cried angrily, cradling his injured hand. He hauled in a deep breath and flopped down at his wooden table. He needed to relax; if he was wound any tighter, he was bound to lose it entirely.

His face was growing pale and drawn, the shadows under his eyes deepening. He tossed fitfully in his sleep, his dreams vividly gruesome. Occasionally the demon would appear. In the draining darkness between sleep and wakefulness, Bravat felt that something irreversible had been set into motion. Then the feeling would fade, and he was just tired and irritated.

But in the corners of his mind, on the fringe of his vision, was the demon. Was Sebastian.

 _Sirius is rising with the sun,_ he realized. He thought of the Dog Star, of the endless dark ocean.

Something else he'd learned in astronomy: at the center of the Milky Way was a collapsar, a dead star that was so dense it sucked in everything around it, even light. If you were close enough to see what it looked like, the professor had said, you were already dead. Torn to shreds by that all-consuming gravity.

Bravat felt like that, like he'd seen something too dark and massive to escape.

 _Put it on my tab, then._

He knew he'd see the thing again. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

The respite, compared to the aching, mounting, tension that had preceded it, was wretchedly brief. The rain poured hard and steady for about a half hour before easing into a light drizzle and fading away entirely. The whole thing lasted less than an hour, and the pavement steamed in the muggy sunshine that followed.

Bravat had peeled his shirt off and was sprawled on the kitchen floor, slumped against the cabinets directly under the fan. He crunched through pickles hypnotically and sipped vodka―relocated to the freezer―straight from the bottle. He used to think _it's not the heat, it's the humidity_ was just something people said to make small talk.

Suddenly, something slammed, crashing, out in the courtyard. He bolted upright and dashed for the back door.

One of his terra cotta pots lay in pieces, its innards spilling out lopsided. "My verbena," Bravat said sadly, kneeling down to scoop it up, when he looked out the wrought iron gate. A technicolor red pool was spilling under it. "Oh, shit."

He fumbled the latch open and burst through the gate, nearly tripping over the gurgling mess that lay before it. "John!" he yelled urgently, dropping to his knees. John Derouen, who lived next door; who owned a little hardware store across the river, did well enough to live up here; whose muffled records Bravat had been listening to for years; who lay dying at Bravat's gate.

The analytical part of his brain, the part that had clung onto random scraps of knowledge from med school, kicked into gear. He looked around frantically, trying to assess the situation. The man had been slammed into the garden wall, hard enough to knock over a potted plant. Hard enough for blood to flow unhurriedly from the back of his skull.

"Okay, just hold on, I'm going to―" Bravat began, his firm emergency voice grinding to a halt. John's shirt was soaked with blood, the material wicking it up into slow-motion fireworks. It looked like he'd been stabbed multiple times. He'd be lucky if the head injury killed him; a stab to the guts was a pretty awful way to go.

Bravat couldn't save him.

"Rev..." John croaked. He was not a reverend, not a Christian, not the person he needed to be right now. Bravat blinked hard, meeting his watery brown eyes, already far away. "Please..." his voice was so quiet. Bravat leaned in to hear, but he knew.

"Our father, who art in heaven..." he spoke the prayer softly, stroking a tentative hand across John's nubby hair. His face was beaded with sweat, painful. For the first time, Bravat felt like a cheap fraud.

"Amen," he whispered softly. He wished at least the demon's face, mirthful and gloating, would stop swimming into his vision. John heaved in a few more stuttering, labored breaths, and fell limp. Bravat wished him well.

As he turned to go inside and phone the police, he noticed something: John's window had been smashed in, and the word "LEAVE" had been scrawled in spraypaint across his back door. Bravat felt ill. Though John had been the only black man on the block, Bravat hadn't imagined the desegregation crisis could reach them here. They'd all been neighborly; friends, even, chatting over drinks during Mardi Gras.

Bravat had borrowed a bag of cement from John and never returned it. He had a nice neat garden path, and John was dead.

" _GOD DAMN IT!"_ he screamed, slamming a fist into the stacked stone around his courtyard, cursing again at the pain. In his mind, the demon chuckled.

* * *

Bourbon tasted like shit, but Bravat wasn't in the mood for moderation, and Russian vodka came neither cheap nor easy.

John's funeral had been that evening, a noisy, brassy affair. Bravat was comforted slightly by the sheer number of people who'd shown up for the parade, by the amount of grief. He marched solemnly; he couldn't quite celebrate John's life, having hardly known the man, but it hurt that he'd died.

The party raged on into the night, a boozy blur; strangers, friends, family, all crying and laughing and singing together. Even as his vision blurred and doubled, Bravat couldn't ignore the large, bat-like things that clung to the ceiling. "To John!" he cried tipsily, muttering something maudlin about cement that was lost among the echoing toast and the buzzing of memories.

"He was a good man," Bravat murmured into someone's shoulder as she collapsed into sobs.

"Yeah, we're still waiting to hear from the police."

"No, I don't have any idea who it could have been."

"Yeah, I thought we'd all been friends. During Mardi Gras..."

"No, I never realized he was in danger."

"Yes, of course, I will make sure they're brought to justice."

"Yeah. Please excuse me." A whirl of responses, delivered over and over again, and Bravat was sick from the motion of it, barely making it out to the courtyard, where he promptly vomited into an innocent rhododendron.

Bravat knew very little about the occult. To him, it was a natural part of the world, as ingrained and everyday as the drapey Spanish moss and the old oaks towering grandly throughout the neighborhood.

He'd gathered, thanks to the extensive and non-judgmental collection at the New York public library, that there were different orders of these things collectively known as _demons_ , more correctly called _spirits._

Most were invisible to humans, shy scavengers who fed on death, despair, and confusion. Some, with years of study and careful concentration, could be perceived. Succubae and incubi were of this order, having entered popular mythology thanks to the devoted few who sought them out. They didn't bother anyone.

Demons were the highest order, relatively few in number, difficult to summon and almost impossible to control. They had the power to possesss, to steal souls, to corrupt. They were said to be fallen angels, but Bravat didn't have any way to prove whether or not this was true.

The New Orleans public library was underwhelming, especially when it came to matters of the supernatural. They did have a copy of the _Malleus Maleficarum_ , which, though terribly vivid, proved entirely irrelevant.

At last, crammed into the religion section seemingly at random, Bravat found a copy of _Daemonologie_ and, surprisingly, of _The Sworn Book of Honorius._ He pulled both, along with one of the handful of bibles, and settled down at a table.

The texts were frustratingly dense and unhelpful, obsessed with the idea of The Devil, singular. Apparently the solution was to live a modest, pious life, a ridiculous proposition not worth considering.

Who was the demon he'd seen? And what did he want?

* * *

"Well, I've, uh, never actually done this. I'm not even Catholic."

"Very well, my son. What is your confession?"

"Um. I. Well, my neighbor died the other day."

"I see. I should tell you, I am required to notify the police if you confess to a murder."

"No, I didn't kill him." Bravat said, nettled. "Let me start over. I met a demon the other night."

"What exactly is the sin you're confessing?" the priest asked, maddeningly patient through the stupid little screen.

"How does that not bother you?! I saw a demon!" Bravat's guilt was rapidly subsiding. The real clergy was so unhelpful, people were probably better off with him.

"Did you, perhaps, encourage it with sin?"

"Oh my god. I don't know, and it doesn't matter. The point is, I think bad things are happening because of it, and I need to know how to stop it."

"My son, for taking the Lord's name in vain―"

" _That has nothing to do with anything!_ " Bravat exploded. "Just _listen_ to me! I'm trying to tell you something, and I need help!"

The priest was, infuriatingly, silent. Bravat continued.

"I don't know, something is wrong, I can just tell. I met a demon, and my fucking next-door neighbor dies right in front of me. I don't understand what's happening, and...I'm...worried." He admitted this with a furrowed brow. He'd worried perhaps three times in his life.

"My son, you should seek out other members of the clergy...confession is for the atonement of personal sins..."

"Well, can you at least tell me who I can ask for help?" Bravat would never be able to show his face again if he sought the help of a demon expert, but whatever. He could find work on another ship, maybe make his way to the Netherlands, Portugal, Hawaii.

"I'm sorry my son, I do not know."

Bravat heaved an enormous sigh. "It's fine. Thanks for listening, or whatever."

"As penance for your sins―"

Already standing to leave, Bravat cut him off. "No offense, but I'm not gonna do it. Have a nice day."

With that, he exited the suffocating confession booth, still a little unsure how he'd ended up there.

* * *

Electricity wasn't cheap; Bravat could only sleep with the lights on for a few days.

Nevertheless, he bought a radio. It was tuned to the local news station, 24 hours a day.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **A/N: i. The _Malleus Maleficarum,_ aka _The Witches' Hammer_ , is popularly known as a witch-hunting manual, written in 1486. It spends roughly one-third of its length on the relationship between witchcraft and the devil.**

 **ii. _The Sworn Book of Honorius_ is a medieval grimoire, a book of magic and summoning for witches.**

 **In fact you're not likely to run across either of this in a public library, but I'm taking a few liberties with the fact that New Orleans is a witchy place.**

 **iii. By the way, "succubae" is apparently the correct plural. I've utterly failed as a Latin scholar for not knowing that!**


	3. Chapter 3

"From your wrath."

"Deliver us, O Lord."

"From sudden and unprovided death."

His little radio had informed him of three more sudden and unprovided deaths; murder wasn't terribly uncommon in New Orleans, but gruesome and strange murder was still newsworthy. Especially the murder of respectable white ladies.

A woman had been strangled, nude, with her own stockings; another, beaten into a hideous, unrecognizable heap, identified by her belongings; the third looked like she'd been attacked by a wild animal, her flesh falling in bloody strips.

The police suspected a serial killer, despite the wildly different causes of death. The thought of multiple people killing nice ladies in such not-nice ways was unthinkable.

"Deliver us, O Lord."

"From the snares of the devil." Bravat spoke the words dispassionately, his faithful chorus piping up after each phrase.

It had been almost a month, and Bravat was still in the pull of that great inevitable darkness. He wished it would just show up already.

"Deliver us, O Lord."

He stupid, embarrassed; fake. He couldn't help but sneer faintly as he asked for deliverance from everything that seemed to have been dumped on his lap.

He couldn't help it: he wondered what the demon, what Sebastian, would think if he saw Bravat like this. He'd probably laugh in his face.

Bravat had always felt like he was the smart guy: ha ha, stupid people don't even know the difference between demons and a stressed 15-year-old. But since he'd run into Sebastian, he felt silly, dumb, without even the calm anchor of belief and ignorance that his clients had. He wondered if Sebastian had even heard the ritual of exorcism in its entirety. Probably not: it was long and, aside from whatever the "possessed" did, fairly boring.

"Do not keep in mind, O Lord, our offenses or those of our parents, nor take vengeance on our sins." Bravat spoke this line wholeheartedly. He certainly hoped no one was cataloguing, nor calculating punishment, for his various shortcomings. Including impersonating a priest and performing the rite of exorcism without permission.

Including allowing a demon to preoccupy his thoughts.

* * *

A storm was coming. Bravat's body ached with the same pulsing electricity as it always did when things were going terribly wrong.

He thought he'd remembered reading once that the Dog Days saw the least rain of the entire year (or was it perhaps the most rain?) The wind was warm and wicked, teasing a storm that would not come. For days, the sky held, a thick blanket of greenish clouds hanging over the city.

He was almost relieved when, the night auspiciously wet and lightning-streaked, a resounding _bang_ echoed from his front door. As he'd been of late, he was stripped to the waist, half-knocked; this time on cheap, crappy bourbon, careful not to finish off the vodka til a fresh bottle had arrived.

Bravat pulled on the t-shirt draped over the back of a kitchen chair before he opened the door, the rain pounding down like a cheap sound effect. "Sebastian," he said evenly.

The demon was hunched, breathing heavily, hands clasped to his side. A rivulet of blood or something darker trailed from the corner of his lips. "Please," he gasped.

Bravat breathed in a heavy, humid sigh. "Come in."

The demon staggered into the house. "Not in there," Bravat said a tad sharply, when Sebastian set his eyes on the Chesterfield in the front parlor. "Back here."

He lay Sebastian down on the cool tile floor of the kitchen. "Water? Bourbon? ...Blood?" Bravat offered nervously, half-joking.

Sebastian shook his head, a weak, fervent motion. His hands were still held desperately to his side.

Frowning, Bravat pried them away gently and pulled up the edge of Sebastian's shirt. The wound was small but deep, black around the edges. "I have a first aid kit. Would sutures work?"

The demon gave the very slightest of nods, his face stiched tightly with pain. Bravat raced to the water closet, fetching a sharp steel needle and roll of catgut; he hoarded medical supplies, a weird compulsion left over from his stint in higher education.

"The salt thing isn't real, right?" Bravat asked, hesitating as he grabbed the container. Sebastian gave another minute shake of his head.

"Alright. I'll save the questions for later. And, this might hurt." Bravat poured salt over the freshly closed wound, and the demon let out a tiny, stifled groan. "It helps, I promise."

He sterilized the needle quickly with a match and knotted the thread. " Again, this might not feel great."

He plunged the needle into the demon's skin. Ragged breaths and the sound of the faithful old ceiling fan filled the air.

They both were still for a moment, Sebastian's eyes clenched shut, his breathing harsh and uneven. Bravat hovered over him uneasily.

"...you...used to...be a doctor..." the demon panted, his breath starting to settle into a rhythm.

"Um."

"I see...more like...you're as good a doctor...as you are...an exorcist."

Bravat scoffed as he bandaged the wound. "Hey, I at least went to med school."

Sebastian's breathing leveled out. His eyelids were no longer tightly clenched together, but relaxed, resting.

Bravat poured himself a huge portion of bourbon. Blood smeared on the glass. "You still owe me," he said softly.

* * *

He set the empty glass gingerly on the countertop, overcompensating in his effort to avoid slamming it down. "Excuse me?"

Sebastian propped himself on an elbow, wincing slightly as the action pinched at his fresh wound. He raised an eyebrow. "I'll put it in plainer terms, then, since you seem to be having trouble―"

"I know what 'lay low' means," Bravat interrupted curtly. "I'm just having a little bit of trouble with the idea of keeping a demon in my house, where whoever attacked said demon could show up and find two idiots for the price of one!"

"I wasn't followed―"

"Wait, how do you even know where I live?" Bravat asked, half to himself.

"―and besides," Sebastian's face was a parody of innocent hurt, "you're not _really_ afraid of me, are you?"

Bravat crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the counter. "Should I be?"

"Not if you let me lay low here for a while."

Bravat looked up at the ceiling, eyes closed, as if praying for strength. "Fine. If you at least tell me what's going on. That's a thing, right? Demons like making deals?"

Sebastian smiled gently, easing himself back down onto his back. "Something like that."

There was a long pause, the rain clattering down in the courtyard outside. Bravat stared vacantly at the garish red refrigerator. Maybe he should paint it.

"Now then, I believe I'll take you up on that bourbon and blood."

Bravat turned, pulling a disgusted face and opening his mouth to reply, when he saw the demon was smiling.

He frowned, scoffing. "Yeah, yeah." He poured another measure of bourbon into a clean glass and handed it to Sebastian. "Stick to the bedroom eyes or whatever, your sense of humor is terrible."

Up on his elbow again, Sebastian took a sip of his drink and ran his tongue lightly over his lips. "If that's what you'd prefer."

"Shut up. What happened?"

The demon crinkled his nose with distaste. He looked around the room, slowly, inspecting it. He took another sip of bourbon. "If you must know, and don't say I didn't warn you..."

Bravat tapped an impatient foot, scowling down at Sebastian like a disappointed schoolteacher. The demon met his eye and continued.

"Very well. It may not surprise you to hear this, but there is another demon in the city. And, by the way, most people would not speak so rudely to a higher being."

Actually, Bravat was a little surprised, but the demon did not need to know this. He raised a patronizing eyebrow and dipped his chin: _continue._

"I am not sure which one, though I have a suspicion. A demon older than I am. She is prone to forming attachments with this world, to bringing about destruction and chaos when it inevitably disappoints her." Sebastian emptied his drink, and Bravat refilled it wordlessly. He was interested.

"So?" he prompted, when the demon sipped his drink idly, surveying the kitchen once more. His long hair, still in a low ponytail, spilled onto the tile by his head like a pool of blood.

"Ah. Well, as I say, she's got a bee in her bonnet and has been stirring up trouble. And it seems like you aren't the only one around with the gift of sight." This last piece said loftily, resentfully.

Bravat was unnerved by this. "You mean...there's someone else in the city who knew what you were? Who...hunted you down and attacked you?"

Sebastian huffed out a pissy little breath. "I suppose. They don't seem to be able to tell us apart, though. They thought I was her."

This gave Bravat pause. True, Sebastian was obviously, glaringly, inhuman, but he looked like an individual. It had never occurred to him that there might be a simpler kind of differentiation between _human_ and _not human_.

"What do you mean when you say she's 'wreaking havoc?'" Bravat put on a dramatic, posh voice when he borrowed Sebastian's phrase. It sounded natural when the demon said it, but he felt stupid trying to pretend that those words could roll off his tongue naturally.

Sebastian darted his eyes meaningfully toward the radio perched next to the sink. "You know."

"You mean..." Bravat said slowly, a trickle of ice stinging his brain and falling, falling down into his belly. "And...John?" he practically whispered, clutching his glass with both hands and staring at the tile by Sebastian's left shoulder.

"Who?" the demon said impatiently. "Anyway, does that satisfy your curiosity?"

" _No_. How did you wind up bleeding to death on my front step?"

"I told you. Someone mistook me for another demon and attacked me."

"Who? Where? What happened?" Bravat asked urgently, crouching down to meet the demon's eye, abandoning at last the pretense of indifference.

Sebastian looked pointedly at his empty glass, and Bravat refilled it with a series of agitated motions. The demon took a long sip before he answered.

"I don't know who they were, or who they worked for. I know they worked for someone, though. It was two women, wearing strange glasses that must have allowed them to see demons―I don't know if they could see the lower spirits—they must have had extensive training, as well, I did not perceive them waiting in the alley..." his voice trailed off into a mutter, speaking more to himself than to Bravat.

"I get it, you're hard to attack. Move on."

The demon seemed unabashed and sipped his fresh bourbon. "In fact it was just around the corner from Churchill's. Haven't seen you there recently, by the way."

Bravat breathed in, counting to ten silently. No wonder people sought to control demons, they were unbelievably irritating when left to their own devices. "And."

"Ah. Yes. Well, it seemed easier to dispatch them than to explain the situation, so..."

The bourbon churned violently in Bravat's belly. "You killed them?"

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "You mean like an animal, with no impulse control, no sense of consequences? No, I didn't. They're fine, probably just waking up now, actually."

"Hmm. You do realize, if anyone shows up at my door, asking about a demon, I will point them in your direction without a second thought?"

Sebastian's face seemed to settle into a neutral expression at last, a trace of displeasure showing. "I told you, I wasn't followed."

"Just hypothetically. I'm really trying to not get stabbed."

Sebastian drained the last of his bourbon and shuttered his eyes softly. "I understand. I don't expect any further protection from you." He hesitated. "And...thank you."

"I...well, I...you're welcome." Bravat blinked hard, taken aback. The price of the drink, the stitches, and lodging had been only truth. He didn't think demons observed such niceties as thank yous. He took a long sip of bourbon to hide his surprise.

He stared at Sebastian for a long moment. "I went to confession, you know," he blurted. "I tried to ask about demons."

Sebastian chuckled through his nose, not even opening his eyes. "Oh?"

"You know, even when you condescend to me like that, you're giving me information. You're right though, it was useless." Bravat slid down, folding his legs under him. "But there _is_ a way to hurt demons. And someone in the city knows how. Frankly, it's in your best interest to tell me at this point."

Sebastian drained the last of his bourbon.

"Does that even do anything for you?" Bravat grumbled, refilling it. He topped off his own glass while he was at it.

If he'd heard the question, Sebastian ignored it. "True, I cannot deny that humans may hurt a demon. Even you must know that humans may sometimes bridge the gap between our worlds."

Bravat's head rang numbly. He sank down onto his back, lying down next to the demon. He rested his head in the crook of his folded arms, turning to look at him. Sebastian's lips were full and pink, and Bravat watched their movements as if hypnotized. "So?"

Sebastian grunted. "So, there exists in this realm knowledge of how to truly injure a demon. Forgive me if I don't share any more."

"Right." Bravat hummed a sigh. "Just so I've got this: there's a demon in New Orleans on a killing spree, and there's someone hunting her? But also, shit happens?"

"Correct."

Bravat rubbed his face, hard, squinching his eyes shut. "And you need to stay here for a bit, right?"

"Indeed."

He rolled over onto his side, propping himself on an elbow. His eyes were lidded sleepily. "One more thing." His voice was husky, woven with alcohol. "I only have the one bed."

* * *

 **TBC**

 **A note on the rite of exorcism: Bravat is more or less adhering to the Catholic tradition (Louisiana in general and New Orleans in particular is a historical stronghold of Catholicism in the largely Protestant South). The procedure is quite rigorously official, and only certain people may perform exorcisms (unlike in, say, _The Exorcist_ ). There is typically a long period of study and prayer, and lengthy preparations―it's quite feasible that desperate people might want to speed things up a bit and look to someone like Bravat for help. **

**The title comes from something I read about the rite of exorcism:**

"The devil HATES obedience and so when a priest or layperson attempts to say the prayers of Exorcism without proper approval, they are acting in disobedience and the devil will simply laugh in their face.

...

Personally, I see obedience as the key here; obedience to the Rite itself and not straying from it.

...

Even more so, the priest needs to be holy and obey the rules that are laid out in performing the Rite."

 **This comes from an article, "The Rite of Exorcism," on Philip Kosloski's website. I can't imagine he'd appreciate what I'm doing with the information he's provided, but he's been a very helpful source.**


	4. Chapter 4

"I only have the one bed." Bravat's voice was low and sexy; he was drunk.

"Demons don't sleep." Sebastian responded stiffly. He was far too proud for hobbled prey.

"Hmmm."

"In fact, I'd prefer to lay on the tile for a bit, if it's all the same to you." Sebastian folded his hands on his stomach, diligently avoiding that sleepy gaze and staring straight up at the ceiling. The room would really benefit from some crown molding.

"I see." Bravat hauled himself up. "Well then, if you're alright, I'm going to go take a bath and go to bed."

Sebastian didn't reply or look over, but nodded his head in acknowledgement. After what seemed like an eternity, Bravat left the kitchen, and Sebastian heard the noisy rush of water into the bath.

Bravat was flirty and attractive and drunk, and Sebastian wanted him.

He felt so weak, like an incubus, drifting blindly toward its stupefied quarry that had been caught in the heat of the moment. Bravat was magnetic, irresistible, some strange electricity rolling off him in waves like sweet perfume. The exorcist was making Sebastian stupid and weak.

He lay there quietly, trying not to think about the flow of warm water across the curves and valleys of bare skin.

Had Bravat always had the gift of sight? How had he ended up in his line of work? Clearly he knew he wasn't performing real exorcisms; Sebastian doubted Bravat had permission from the church and strongly suspected his robes had been stolen.

Bravat did not seem to fear or hate the creatures of oblivion; indeed, he seemed to know little about the spirits that moved through this world and even less about their realm. Sebastian rather wished he'd ask questions; he loved to talk about himself.

The fact that Bravat did not seem interested was compelling in and of itself. He spoke to Sebastian without reverence, as if they were equals. It was...refreshing. He could admit to himself, lying quietly on the rather unstylish tile floor, recovering from a grave injury, that he liked Bravat. Liked talking to him, spending time with him.

The shower ran loudly, an operatic hum within the walls. Sebastian thought of Bravat, perhaps swaying lightly under the hot spray. Perhaps thinking of him.

Sebastian allowed his eyes to slide shut as he succumbed to this tempting line of thought. He knew he was attractive, and Bravat had been solicitous. Of course he was thinking about Sebastian. Probably pleasuring himself while thinking about Sebastian.

A self-satisfied little smile played across his features and his body grew warm and melty.

Then, furrowing his eyebrows, he sighed. He could ill afford such antics anyhow, with his injury. He sat up cautiously, testing his range of motion. Not too terrible, if he didn't bend much. His shirt was stiff with dried blood, and he peeled it off. It stuck to his skin in a few places.

He stood, clicking on the little radio. It was already turned to the local news channel; no word about two strangely-dressed women found unconscious or about the man they'd stabbed with a sacramental dagger. Nor would there be.

"...Police are still investigating the murder of Nancy Kernan, believed to be linked to the deaths of Susan Percy Love and Rachel Harkness. Investigators have determined that the murderer is targeting young, married white women, and are encouraging those who fit the profile to follow a 9:00 curfew and travel with an escort at all times. Several suspects have been detained..."

Sebastian tuned out; the police were trying to appear busy, when really, they had no idea what was happening. But the report gave him pause: if it was _her_ , and she'd settled on young married white women...

 _"And...John?"_

Who was John? Someone Bravat knew, obviously. Perturbed, Sebastian rummaged through the icebox. _Ah_. He extracted the bottle of vodka from the freezer and took an enormous swig, returning to lean against the counter with his prize.

"Hey! That's the last of my vodka, asshole!"

Sebastian turned. Bravat stood in the kitchen door, wearing a towel across his hips and nothing else. Water dripped from spikes of hair like crystals from an extravagant chandelier. Sebastian gave him a slow, appreciative once-over. "Who is John?"

A tiny blush spread across the tops of Bravat's cheeks at that suggestive look, and he darted his eyes briefly across Sebastian's bare torso, but otherwise he did not react. "I'm serious! That's really expensive and takes forever to ship!"

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Yes, with a demon indebted to you, continue to worry about things like shipping. I'll replace it for you. Who is John?"

"I...well, whatever. John is...was...John Derouen, my neighbor. He was...murdered." His eyes cast down, his words fading into a mumble. "I...couldn't save him."

"I'm sorry," Sebastian said gently. To his surprise, he even meant it a little bit: Bravat looked so sad.

Bravat frowned, adjusting his towel. "Why do you ask? Does it have anything to do with...?" He trailed off.

Sebastian shook his head. "I don't think so." Then he surprised himself with his own honesty. "Or perhaps it does. Demons are drawn to hatred and unrest. His murder may have opened a crack that allowed her through, or it might be a symptom of something larger."

Bravat tilted his head like a dog who heard a strange noise. "And you? What 'crack' did you come through?"

"Ah. That would have been...about seventy years ago? The grief of one Queen Victoria for her husband was deep and lingering, drawing out my kind." Sebastian felt a little nostalgic.

Bravat nodded thoughtfully, seemingly to himself. Then he looked up and scowled. "Anyway, don't forget about the vodka." He opened the refrigerator and extracted a gallon jug of water, guzzled from it, and left the room with it. "Nighty night."

"Good night." The words were a little foreign to Sebastian, and Bravat was already gone by the time he'd spoken.

* * *

Bravat wasn't particularly surprised when he awoke the next morning, hangover pounding at his skull, to find the demon had vanished in the night. He walked through the house uneasily; something was off.

Then he realized: the place had been meticulously cleaned. Now _that_ was surprising.

He walked into the kitchen, still marveling, and promptly stubbed his toe on the heavy base of the table.

"Auughhhhh." Bravat flopped into a chair, crossing his leg and clutching his injured foot in his lap. "Ah. Mother...fucker..." the curse died in his throat.

On the tabletop, cleared of its thin layer of detritus and lovingly polished, glistened a small, wickedly sharp knife. Bravat believed it could appropriately be called a _stiletto;_ but then again, he'd never needed to know much about weapons.

He picked it up, hefting its cold weight. It was fairly plain, with only simple scrollwork adorning the handle, but it had an ancient and ceremonial feel about it; though perhaps it was the knowledge of the one who'd left it that gave the impression.

Then, all at once, the weight of the situation slammed into him at full tilt, and his idle curiosity toward the demon was crushed by anxiety and fear. "Oh my god," he moaned, letting his head fall to the table with a soft _thud_.

He let about three minutes pass, just breathing deeply, his head throbbing. The gears of his mind whirred, clicking into place, falling in time with this sudden shift in reality. Then he got up, drank two large glasses of water in rapid succession, and splashed his face in the sink. "Okay," he muttered to himself. "Here we go."

With that, he brushed out of the immaculate house, leaving the knife on the table.

* * *

As New Orleans crumbled, the city tried to save itself by whoring out its occult appeal. People saw psychics and fortune tellers for fun—a combination of cold reading, a parlor trick Bravat had learned from a gypsy in Amsterdam, and showmanship, which he couldn't begrudge; they visited the grave of the voodoo queen Marie Laveau; they bought little dolls and _gris-gris_ at souvenir shops.

This kitschy veneer perfectly masqueraded real belief, allowing truth and lies to mingle together inextricably.

Bravat was sure there was a lesson there, if he cared to think on it.

The night was lively, bustling, even; kids played in the street, crickets scraped away in their little orchestra, streetcars rang and rumbled. But the noise and activity felt distant, as though everything were underwater. A scruffy dog eyed him warily before trotting away down the street, resuming whatever errand Bravat had apparently interrupted.

The neighborhood was dingy, the houses small and downtrodden. More than a handful of lawns were scattered with furniture, toys, or rusty cars that could spend five years on their last legs. A purebred New Yorker, Bravat didn't drive. Kudos to those who could bring a car to the perpetual brink of death.

Madame Gauthier's house was exactly as run-down as her neighbors' at first glance; random kids were shrieking and chasing each other on the lawn, which was dotted with junk abandoned halfway to the curb.

The inside, however, was much worse. The place reeked, visceral and stuffily perfumed with herbs and tinctures; piles and piles of junk dominated the floor space.

The woman flung the door wide as Bravat approached; naturally, there had been no need to knock. Her long dreadlocks were piled into a loose knot on her head, and she wore a blue sweater set with smartly pressed slacks. She could have looked grandmotherly, if not for Bravat's persistent mental image of her beheading a flailing chicken. "Sky Bravat." She greeted him solemly, though not unkindly.

He winced delicately. " _Please_ don't call me that."

The lady Gauthier ignored him, stepping aside and gesturing him into the house. They threaded their way through the clutter, into the small dining room. She shoved aside a large box, sending a handful of papers toppling from the edge of the table, and they sat down opposite each other at the little corner of clear space.

She stared at Bravat blankly, waiting. He almost longed for the confessional booth as he recounted what had happened since meeting Sebastian, omitting details about his appearance or where they'd met. Selfishly, he didn't want to share too much about Sebastian. He felt a strange claim to the demon.

"Anyway, he left me this weird knife, and, I dunno, with all the crazy shi―stuff that's been going on, I'm...afraid of what that means. What's going to happen." He looked down at his hands as he said this last bit.

She nodded. "I see." A weighty silence stretched out; Madame Gauthier never offered unsolicited advice, and she would wait for an exact question or request to say anything of consequence.

He took a deep breath. "I need two things. One, I need to know how to summon and control a demon.

And two, I need to know how to kill a demon."

Her lips curled into a smile. "Both of those things, of course, usually require years and years of discipline and training. But with your gifts..." She pushed herself away from the table and stood. "Can I offer you some sweet tea?"

Bravat nodded and followed her into the kitchen, humoring her. She took a glass pitcher from the icebox, poured the tea over ice; he wasn't sure if she was just stalling to screw with him or if she really was oblivious. "Lemon?"

"No, thanks." Bravat took his tea and sipped it distractedly. "So you can help me, right?"

She took a sip of her tea and shut her eyes with satisfaction. "Ahh. Don't know how they can drink unsweet tea up north." Then, focusing her gaze squarely on Bravat, she nodded once, decisively.

"I'll start with your second request. If the demon left you a weapon, presumably for this _other_ demon and not himself, it is most likely a holy weapon, perhaps coated with silver. I would not be surprised if it is able to deliver a fatal blow."

Bravat had suspected as much, though he was a mystified by this show of trust. He nodded before shifting his gaze to his glass guiltily. "And...it should work on...all demons?" He was actually a little fond of Sebastian, but if he needed to be...put down...

"It should. Demons are usually unable to affect holy items, but it depends on how powerful they are." She took another sip of tea; both of them held their drinks awkwardly, the countertops too crowded to accommodate two glasses.

"Now then. You are at a disadvantage, not knowing his name, but summoning him should be doable. Do you, perhaps, have anything of his? Hair, saliva? Something...else?" She arched her eyebrows conspiratorially, making Bravat squirm with embarrassment.

"I'm sure I could find his dirty glass or something."

"Very good."

She explained the ritual, and Bravat listened carefully, making a mental list of items he'd need.

"You must be sure to keep a very clear image of his face in your mind. Concentrate only on the summoning. And, be warned, you will likely make many attempts before succeeding."

She became brisk, businesslike. "Now then. My fee."

Bravat handed over the envelope of cash wordlessly, his mind filled with smoke and Sebastian's face.

"Thank you, my dear." She gave him a dry little peck on the cheek and ushered him toward the front door. "Take care. And," she added gravely, "good luck."

Another first: Bravat wasn't sure he'd ever needed luck before.

* * *

 _"The name of this tune is Mississippi Goddam. And I mean every word of it."_

After a quiet week, Bravat had finally switched from the news station, but it seemed like there was turmoil everywhere. People were being killed, and the pain and anger were boiling over everywhere.

 _"Black cat cross my path, I think every day is gonna be my last."_

The window was thrown open in the hopes of catching a breeze; the day was cloudy and cool, sudden gusts of wind punctuating the stillness. Nina Simone's husky voice spilled out over the windowsill into the courtyard, a painful reminder of what had happened there earlier that summer.

Though there hadn't been any more murders, Bravat had been on edge all week. He spent hours on end just handling the knife, turning it over and over in his hands, hypnotized by it. The nights stretched out, long and sleepless, as he waited for whatever was coming.

And, of course, he spent hours trying to summon Sebastian.

He'd lurked at Churchill's, hoping the demon would reappear. No luck; maybe Sebastian had been bluffing when he said he hadn't seen Bravat there lately.

He'd drawn the elaborate pentagram in chalk on the courtyard, diligently copying down the words Madame Gauthier had told him; he'd chanted her strange words, burned her strange herbs; but nothing happened. Bravat hoped the demon hadn't been smart enough to wipe off the mouth of the vodka bottle he'd been using, fished up from the bottom of the trash.

July had melted into August, and still there was no sign of the demon. Bravat felt a little betrayed; Sebastian had abandoned him with a creepy old knife and no explanation, leaving him to wait in anguish for the day he would be forced to use it.

Besides, they had a good rapport.

Bravat couldn't help but like Sebastian. Having someone he could be himself around was...refreshing. He wanted to see him again, maybe have a drink and some back-and-forth.

And an explanation for the knife.

 _I need to get out of the house_.

He walked to Churchill's, a part of him still secretly hoping he would run into Sebastian. But, of course, no such luck; still, at least he was surrounded by people, instead of the angry radio.

He sat at the bar, sipping vodka and eating salty peanuts, eavesdropping on the conversations around him. But he may as well have been invisible; aside from the bartender, he went completely unnoticed.

It was dark when Bravat left, a bit disappointed with the outing. Perhaps he should have tried harder to join a conversation. At least the music had been nice. Nice, and neutral.

 _I guess my night was better than that guy's_ , he thought, watching the stumbling silhouette ahead on the sidewalk. They staggered sharply off to the left, into the street.

"Hey! Watch out!" Bravat called, quickening his stride to catch up to the figure. "Hey, be more careful, a car could—" He grabbed their arm, then recoiled in horror.

The skin was webbed thickly with veins, shriveled and bumpy. The thing turned its head to look at Bravat, twisting its neck at an inhuman angle.

"You're—are you—dead?!" he gasped, taking an involuntary step backwards as he got a good look at it for the first time. It looked like it had certainly once been human, but now...

Suddenly, it lurched towards him, mouth opening hugely as it lunged toward Bravat's throat. He yelled out in panic and ducked, instinctively throwing up his hands over his face and freezing like a rabbit.

He crouched there, waiting for the thing to attack him, when he heard a wet, slimy, _sheck!_ and a loud thud.

"Were you about to just let it attack you?" asked an incredulous female voice. Bravat looked up.

The woman who'd spoken could have been anywhere from her 20's to her 40's, with long brown hair pulled up into a ponytail and stern glasses on her very pretty face. She wore something that looked like a cross between a playsuit and a mechanic's jumper, with short pants and sleeves. Her hands were on her hips, an enormous dagger held casually in her right. The dead person lay at her feet in a heap.

"Uh, I guess so." He straightened himself up. "What was that thing?"

She frowned, seeming unsure of how to answer. "It was...a dead body that had been...reanimated somehow."

"Yeah, I got that much."

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. He tried again. "Who are you? Clearly you knew what it was and how to get rid of it."

"Nina Hopkins," she said, a bit sourly. Clearly she did not find his brand of humor entertaining. "I deal with this kind of stuff."

"Bravat." He extended a hand, which she shook quite firmly. "Might that include...demons?"

She raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "Perhaps."

"You might be just the person I need."

* * *

 **TBC**

 **A/N: i. The family line of Gauthier are believed to be direct descendants of Voodoo queen Marie Laveau.**

 **ii. "Mississippi Goddam" is a song by Nina Simone, written to protest the increasing racial tension and violence of the day. When it was played on the radio in 1964, it was not censored.**

 **iii. Just has an aside, New Orleans has historically been one of the gay-friendliest cities in America, after San Francisco.**


	5. Chapter 5

Nina Hopkins crossed her arms and jutted out a hip. "Oh?"

Bravat looked down pointedly at the twice-over corpse at her feet. It looked like her shoes had come into the fray bloodstained and would leave it more so. "Let's go somewhere to talk."

She looked at him a little distrustfully, but nodded. "Fine. My shop is just around the corner anyway."

With that, she turned, leaving Bravat to scurry along in her wake. The pair were silent until she stopped abruptly a few blocks later in front of a ratty-looking tailor's shop. He waited awkwardly as she bent down to unlock the door.

"Come in, come in," she said, standing to the side of the door and rushing him inside. "My office is in the back."

"Nina?" A female voice called out from some unknown cranny of the dark shop. The lights flicked on, and Bravat had a half second to squint around at the tables heaped with garments and enormous spools of thread lined along the back wall before he heard the _click_ of a gun being cocked.

A young woman with red hair drawn up into pigtails and glasses pushed up onto her forehead was standing, wide-legged, in the door to the back office, and she was aiming a pair of old-fashioned pistols squarely at Bravat's face.

"What the hell!" he spluttered, while Nina smiled indulgently and fluttered her lashes.

"It's alright, Mey-Rin. He's with me." The redhead, Mey-Rin, lowered her guns cautiously, while Nina bounced over and planted a kiss on her cheek. "What are you still doing here, my love?"

The sudden transformation from stern, knife-wielding, no-nonsense maybe-demon-slayer to kittenish girl was a bit unnerving to Bravat, but the redheaded girl took it in stride. She squirmed around in Nina's embrace, returning her guns to the pockets of her loose, military-looking trousers. "My favorite garter belt tore, and I wanted to fix the embroidery before I left." Her accent sounded faintly British.

Nina nuzzled, cat-like, against the girls cheek, and her glasses slid back down onto her nose. _Damn, she must be_ blind, Bravat thought; the lenses were thick as a telescope lens. Then he realized something.

He cleared his throat loudly, not sure that they remembered he was standing there. His suspicion was confirmed when they both started, the redheaded Mey-Rin seeming to become a little bashful at his presence. Nina seemed unembarrassed.

"Those glasses..." Bravat started. The girl touched them almost unconsciously.

"Farsighted, not near. Sucks most of the time, great for shooting."

"Huh. I thought only old people were farsighted. But no, I actually have a different question. Did you by any chance ambush a demon and get knocked out recently?"

Mey-Rin and Nina both looked dumbfounded for a moment, exchanging _is he for real?_ glances as an awkward silence stretched out.

"Um. No."

"Ah." They all stood there for another minute or so, Nina looking a little scornful, Mey-Rin looking confused and annoyed.

"Let's start over. I'm Bravat." He extended a hand, which Mey-Rin shook carefully.

"I saved him from one of the _nzambis_ ," Nina said. Bravat wanted to dispute this unflattering summary of events, but she was right. He would have been toast.

"Why is he here?" Mey-Rin pulled herself out of Nina's embrace and crossed her arms.

"He said he wanted to talk."

"I'm right here," Bravat said, annoyed. "I know that a demon has been causing the murders lately, and by the way, I can see them."

The two women fell silent at this, staring at him as though a spotlight had suddenly been thrown onto him. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

They remained motionless and silent. Bravat pressed on. "I, ah. I have a knife. From a demon. A different demon, I mean. That's the one I was talking about earlier, actually." He was babbling. He rubbed his wild lilac hair and finished lamely. "Anyway, yeah. I need help."

At last, Nina cleared her throat. "You say you 'see demons.' You perceive spirits?"

"I _see_ them. Like, on the way over here, there were a bunch of the small fuzzy ones by the barber shop? And there's always incubi and succubae in bars? You know?"

The girl Mey-Rin pushed her glasses up to her forehead again. Her voice was deep and dusky. "You have the gift of _aberration_."

Bravat shrugged. "I guess. I wouldn't say it's a gift though, given where I'm at right now." Then he smirked. "So you two can't see them, then?"

Nina looked away crossly. "Through dedication and intense study, we are able to perceive the beings of oblivion."

Bravat's smile widened. "Then it looks like you could use my help, as well."

Nina and Mey-Rin looked at each other, a long, silent conversation; at last, Mey-Rin nodded. "Fine. We work together."

Bravat smiled, squinting his eyes shut and extending his hand. "Deal." Neither of the women moved to shake it, and he dropped it without missing a beat. "I can tell you what I know if you tell me what you know. You said that thing back there was a zombie?"

Nina spoke first. "A soulless corpse, not possessed by a spirit. Likely a slave."

"Whose?"

She snorted irritably. "If I knew, I'd've told you, wouldn't I?"

"Right. Well, can you at least tell if its master was a human or a...creature of oblivion?" The phrase felt strange on Bravat's tongue.

"It would be a demon's if it were enslaved by a spirit, and no, we can't tell by looking. Why do you think we can tell?"

"Oh my god. Nevermind. Let's go back into the office."

The three moved back into Nina's office; unlike the front of the store, it was tidy and executive. A large, dark wood desk occupied most of the floor space, two nailhead-studded chairs facing it. The small window was glass block; lots of privacy.

Bravat leaned his lower back against the edge of the desk and crossed his ankles, Nina and Mey-Rin facing him. Blocking the door. He spoke first. "Did you know there are at least two demons in the city?"

Neither Nina nor Mey-Rin was visibly surprised by this news, but Mey-Rin replied with a curt _no._

"Yeah, well, apparently one of them is killing people. And one of them is...well, I don't know." What _was_ Sebastian doing here, anyway? What did he know? Bravat sighed. "Anyway, I met one of them, and he told me there was another demon. That the other demon was committing those murders."

Mey-Rin's eyes were inscrutable through her heavy glasses, but Nina's were incredulous. "And you believed it?"

"Well...yeah, I guess so."

"Right." Nina's voice was derisive. "So a _demon_ told you that it was just minding its innocent business when another demon _happened_ to show up and start slaughtering people?"

Bravat lowered his eyes, feeling a little foolish. "He said that all of the...anger, and stuff...opened up a, uh, crack, that let in another demon."

Mey-Rin made a noise in the back of her throat. "It's not impossible," she murmured. Nina did not look convinced.

"Yeah, and why would he give me a holy weapon or whatever if it was him? Just to throw me off? That's stupid."

"If you trust this _demon_ so much, what do you need us for? It already left you a weapon, why can't _it_ help you?" Nina said.

Bravat realized that, at some point, he'd gone from thinking of Sebastian as...Sebastian. Not a _thing_ or an _it_. Nina's haughty distance made him feel uncomfortable and weirdly guilty. "He kinda...disappeared on me. Plus, you two seem to know more about demons and about that...zombie than I do."

Nina barked a mirthless laugh. "An _aberrator_ who doesn't study spirits."

"Hey, I know a little! Right now I'm even working on summoning Sebas—the demon who left me the knife."

"He told you his true name?" Mey-Rin asked.

"Well, no, but I think I got a sample of his spit."

"Perhaps you should try summoning lower spirits first. It's difficult for even an accomplished scholar to summon a ninth-sphere creature," Nina said. She circled around to her desk, unlocking a lower drawer and pulling out a thick, ancient looking book. She pressed it into Bravat's hands; it was even heavier than it looked. "Read this. Practice summoning."

He tucked it under his arm awkwardly. "What do I...do with a spirit I summon? Do they understand us when we talk?"

"They're rather like dogs in that they can learn a few simple commands. Speak to them in Latin," Nina said.

Bravat did not speak Latin. "Sure thing," he said. "Well, thanks. I'll get on it." He pushed himself forward from the desk to leave, but Nina and Mey-Rin continued to block his path.

"In exchange," Nina said, holding up a hand and smiling deviously, "you need to find out where the _nzambis_ are coming from."

No doubt this would mean another very expensive trip to Madame Gauthier's, but it was doable. Hell, maybe he'd get lucky and they'd belong to that harbinger demon or whatever Sebastian had called her.

He stuck out his hand, smiling and squinting his eyes shut. "Done."

Nina shook it, returning his smile. "Well then," she said, showing him out of the office and pausing at the front door as he made to leave the shop, "get home safely."

* * *

"Uh...roll over...I mean, shit, um..." Bravat flipped through the Latin dictionary he'd had the bookstore order for him. " _voluto._ "

The little imp, which looked to Bravat like a lumpy white radish with big leathery wings, hovered above the chalk pentagram. It looked bored and unimpressed.

"Come on, _voluto_." Bravat spun a pointed index finger in a circle. _"Voluto."_

It flapped in place, blinking stupidly.

"Well, whatever. I don't really have time to teach you tricks anyway." He dismissed the creature and looked back at the book Nina had given him, sprawled open next to him on the floor where he sat Indian-style.

"God dammit Sebastian, where _are_ you?" he moaned in frustration. Between summoning what Bravat had learned were called _imps_ and _fae_ , he continued attempting, to no avail, to reach Sebastian.

Two more women had been murdered, hanged gruesomely from grand old oak trees. Police were "pursuing leads, but no arrests have been made." The situation was worsening.

Time to try something new. Bravat drew the pentagram and its strange words carefully, from memory, in chalk on the linoleum of his kitchen (he couldn't quite bear to maul the antique hardwood in the rest of the house). He placed the vodka bottle carefully at one of the points and sat opposite it.

He channeled all his concentration into thinking only of Sebastian, imagining his face, his lips, his wicked shining eyes. He thought of Sebastian's bare torso, slicked with sweat (did demons sweat? Bravat didn't know, but it was an enticing detail with plausible deniability); his chest, heaving with shallow, panting breaths.

 _He traced Sebastian's muscles lightly with his mouth, imagining an inhuman growl of arousal in reply. Bravat sank his teeth into the soft whiteness of Sebastian's neck as he straddled the demon, holding his wrists down. Their hips rocked together, grinding hot hardness against hardness._

His loose linen trousers were likely to drape quite inelegantly were he to stand up. Remaining seated, keeping his eyes closed, Bravat began to recite the words that would bring the demon to him.

 _Still holding his wrists captive, Bravat shifted his seat upon the demon (delicious friction) to dip his lips down and suck on Sebastian's pert nipple. Sebastian groaned and arched up into him, and Bravat bit down ever so lightly. "Not until I give you permission."_

 _Crimson eyes opened at this, flaming. "What if I just take it?"_

 _Suddenly, Bravat was being flipped over by the supernaturally strong demon, their positions now reversed. "You're mine now," the demon breathed._

" _Nunc, mea es._ " Bravat whispered the phrase aloud in Latin. _Come on, Sebastian._

He kept his eyes closed, breathing quietly for a moment. _Now Sebastian's fingertips were flirting with Bravat's waistband, tiptoeing closer and closer to the ache beneath them. As he slid Bravat's trousers down, his lashes lowering in slow motion, he dipped his head down to—_

"Did you call me?"

Bravat started, a blush blooming across the tops of his cheeks. "Where have you been?!" He didn't stand up to meet Sebastian, who knelt down instead.

"I've been busy. In case you hadn't noticed, there's a somewhat unhinged demon on the loose." He frowned, and a small, shiny scar was visible where his forehead wrinkled.

Bravat leaned forward and touched the scar gently with a fingertip. "She attacked you? What happened?"

Sebastians eyes were fixed hungrily on Bravat's face as he was absorbed in his examination. "What do you think happened?" he murmured.

Bravat pulled back and met the demon's eyes, glowing like embers in the twilit kitchen. "I don't know. That's why I asked."

"No sense of mood at all." Sebastian sighed and turned his head, as though Bravat had disappointed him by answering a riddle incorrectly. "And you were such a good sport the other night."

"Stop screwing around! Jesus Christ!"

They both froze for a moment, and burst out laughing.

"Hah. Okay. Although, hey, did you know Jesus or anything?"

"I thought you said to stop screwing around, yet you say something so terribly inane," Sebastian said drolly.

"Right. So what happened? You've been fighting her?"

Sebastian arched an eyebrow. "Why did you call me? And, forgive me, it must have taken you a good deal of work to be able to do so."

Bravat's aching erection had finally ebbed, and he shifted his seat to a more comfortable position. "A bit, yeah. I want to know why you left me that weird knife. What _you_ want from _me._ "

This seemed to make Sebastian as close to uncomfortable as Bravat had ever seen him. "I don't want anything from you. The _Misericordia_ was for...self-defense. Just in case." Sebastian was mumbling to his chest.

"Aww, you like me! Tell you what, for that, and for cleaning the place, I'll give you some of my Russian vodka."

The wispy cloud of discomfort had passed over Sebastian, leaving him pissy and sharp to compensate for the moment of weakness. He crossed his arms sullenly. "Fine."

Bravat stood and poured two glasses, shoving one against the demon's wrists. "I'll sweeten the deal." He clinked his glass against Sebastian's and drained it. "I like talking to you too. Want some pickles?"

"No."

"Suit yourself. I'm trying to be nice. Don't get all huffy because I'll call a spade a spade."

Sebastian seemed to give an inch, and he took a sip of vodka, though he stubbornly avoided Bravat's gaze.

Bravat filled another glass for himself, fetched a jar of pickles from the icebox, crunched through one. He sipped his vodka, the silence stretching out as the cicadas cried outside the window. "Look, I don't care if you're a super evil demon or whatever. It's fine with me if you're a little bit...human." His cheeks pinked. "I hope I'm not being too good a sport."

At last, Sebastian met his eye, the faintest smile traced upon his lips. "Maybe you are." He leaned forward right as the vodka rushed up to flood Bravat's brain.

Dewy lips met his, softly, softly. Just as Bravat's eyes slid shut he could have sworn he heard―or felt―whispered against his lips: _thank you_.

 _Probably just my imagination_ , he thought, as a hot tongue slid into his mouth and the world fell away around them.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **A/N: This chapter is a bit shorter than I'd prefer, but what can ya do.**

 **Something I forgot to add: although for whatever reason it seems to be quite taboo to use the word "zombie," or indeed have characters with any prior understanding of zombies in most modern zombie fiction, it actually makes very good sense here. The mythos of the zombie as we mostly understand it (a soulless, reanimated corpse or perhaps a "living corpse," a living body without a soul) originates from Haitian and West African Vodou practices, imported to New Orleans via the slave trade and incorporated into a local religious practice by the relatively lax laws that allowed slaves to congregate for religious purposes. The word Nina uses, _nzambi_ , is one of the two suggested root words: _god._ "Zombi" is both the proper name for the snake god, bringer of life [aka Damballa] and a more general term for a resurrected thrall, originally used in English. **

**By the way, I'd prefer to go with the max-Anglicized version of Mey-Rin's name, Maylene, for the sake of the setting, especially since in my story she's British, but I'd rather use a more canonically appropriate version. Besides, plenty of Southerners have strange names.**

 **PS: will I ever stop writing long, overly personal author's notes? the answer is no. I love to hear myself talk.**


	6. Chapter 6

Sebastian's tongue slipped into his mouth, intensely hot and wet against the fantasy Bravat had used to reach him. Bravat made a little noise of satisfaction and surprise in the back of his throat, melting into the kiss. Before he could stop himself, his hand had wound its way into Sebastian's hair, gripping tightly. Probably would've been uncomfortable for a human.

Bravat yanked harder, pulling Sebastian's head back and tilting up his throat. He attacked it, kissing roughly, biting down hard enough to draw out a hiss of pain or pleasure. It wasn't enough. He wanted Sebastian to lose control; just once this miserable summer, Bravat wanted to have the upper hand.

Still holding Sebastian's hair, he trailed his lips up to the demon's ear and whispered: _nunc, mea es. You're mine now._

Seemingly against his will, Sebastian let out a tiny moan and murmured something in reply, mistaking Bravat for a person who actually knew Latin. But the words didn't matter; his tone said, _we'll see about that._

He moved to straddle Sebastian, his erection back in full force, and nibbled his ear suggestively: _so show me._ Any Latin he'd gleaned from his little dictionary had been displaced by the heavy hot lust that had overpowered him. Body language would have to suffice.

Something thicker and darker than smoke was seeping out around the edges of the demon's body. He growled throaty Latin into Bravat's ear, sending shivers down the back of his neck. A black tendril coiled around Bravat's ankle; another, around his wrist.

Using his free hand, Bravat groped downward between their bodies until he reached the bulge at the front of Sebastian's trousers. He palmed Sebastian, rubbing lightly, delighting in the hiss the action elicited.

Blackness coiled around his other wrist and pulled his hand away, and by some unseen force, Bravat was shoved to his back, his hands pinned over his head. Sebastian was over him, on his hands and knees; his nails had become long black claws, sharp and deadly. He grinned wickedly, all sharp fangs and blazing demonic eyes.

He trailed a fingertip softly against the outline of Bravat's cock, and he reflexively rocked his hips into the touch."Now beg me for it.

"I summoned you, doesn't that make me your _master_?" Bravat said, laying a delicate emphasis on _master_.

Sebastian stroked Bravat through his trousers with a soft press of his fingertips. "The fact that you would ask tells me exactly who is in control here." Then, suddenly, he ripped Bravat's shirt open, laying bare that soft skin and hard muscle. "Do you know what it takes to control a demon?" He leaned down and trailed his hot tongue along Bravat's left nipple; then, suddenly, he bit down, hard.

Bravat cried out, yanking his wrists against the demonic aether that shackled them, but the restraint only grew tighter in reply. "I could take you right here, you know." Sebastian trailed his hands along Bravat's thighs, bringing his lips to the lines of his hips. "I could ravage you with pleasure and pain all night until my name breaks on your voice." He bit down once more, and Bravat cried out.

"And I know," Sebastian continued, trailing his lips over Bravat's ribs, dipping back down to tease at the waistband of his trousers, refusing to satisfy the pulsing ache between Bravat's legs, " _you wouldn't stop me._ "

" _Fuck,"_ Bravat moaned, closing his eyes, nearly weeping with heady desire as Sebastian steadfastly avoided his rock-hard cock. " _Please."_ He strained against the coiling blackness around his wrists, needing to pull Sebastian against him.

"Good boy. " Sebastian did not release Bravat, however, and began to pull his t-shirt over his head, a gesture Bravat hadn't realized could be sexy.

"Sebastian, what the fuck!" Bravat cried.

An enormous, purplish scar jagged across Sebastian's chest, a yellow bruise blooming around it. It reminded Bravat of the mineral pools in Yellowstone, poisonous and boiling bright.

"Don't worry about it." He unbuttoned his trousers, overly calm and casual now.

Bravat struggled up into a sitting position; it felt like the restraints around his wrists had gone limp. "Let me look at it." His voice was sharp, commanding.

"It's really nothing," Sebastian grumbled, though he ceased undressing and was looking away crossly.

Carefully, Bravat inspected the wound, then peered around at Sebastian's back. Something large and sharp had sliced through him, an injury a human would never survive.

"Jesus, Sebastian! What have you been _doing_?!"

Sebastian seemed defensive, like a naughty child. "I told you."

Bravat crossed his arms. "You didn't, actually. Nor do you know what I've been going through."

"Something happened?"

"You first."

The air still seemed to crackle with hot electricity, but the desperate lust had been shattered by shock. This seemed to have annoyed Sebastian. "Very well. In brief, she wields a demonic sword, capable of injuring me—"

"Like the knife you gave me?"

Sebastian gave him a look. "It's rude to interrupt, especially after you've begged someone to speak. And no, the _Misericordia_ is forged by mortals, sanctified by ritual far older than myself. It has the power to kill a demon, but if you stabbed a human with it, it would be no different than any other wound. A demon sword is rather the opposite; terribly deadly to the creatures of this realm, but only able to inflict 'average' wounds upon other demons. Though we are a bit sturdier, and can survive more than humans."

"So she got you with her sword, then?"

"I tried reasoning with her," Sebastian said, seemingly to himself.

"Are you...okay?" Bravat asked.

Sebastian lifted an eyebrow. "Do I seem otherwise?"

Bravat mussed his hair and looked away. "I guess not. Anyway, that sort of leads to why I called you: I got attacked by a _zombie_. I need your help figuring out where it came from."

"Is that not a creation of human Voodoo? Why should I know anything about that?" Sebastian said.

"Well, I thought maybe there was a chance it belonged to...what is her name?" Bravat said, realizing that the demon had never been referred to by name.

Sebastian snorted. "Even I don't know that. It's been lost to history. But in this realm, she calls herself _Hannah_."

"Right. Well, I thought maybe it belonged to Hannah, and that you might know something about it. Apparently I'm not the only one to run into one."

Sebastian pursed his lips. "Can't help you there."

They were both quiet for a moment, sitting awkwardly among a mess of clothes atop the chalk pentagram. Bravat fiddled with the torn edges of the shirt fluttering off his shoulders. "I was thinking," he began awkwardly, "maybe I could...help you fight this Hannah demon."

Sebastian looked like he wanted to laugh and was masking it poorly with a look of kind concern. "Ah. No thank you. I can handle it."

Bravat frowned. "Clearly you can't, if you're showing up with all these awful scars, which, by the way, seem to be all you've gotten for several weeks worth of trouble, considering she's still killing people."

"Listen," Sebastian said, almost gently, "I left you the _Misericordia_ for self defense, assuming that the element of surprise and your knowledge of anatomy and thus where to place a deadly blow would be enough. I'm not sure you could take her on. She's—she's powerful." _More powerful than me._ Sebastian was too proud to say it, but Bravat could tell the words had been on the tip of his tongue.

Bravat knew Sebastian was right, but he felt so helpless. "It's...my responsibility to do something about this. Gift or curse, I have—ah shit, what did Nina call it— _aberration._ I need to do _something._ "

"Just...try to stay safe," Sebastian said. "And shut up," he added, when Bravat's face lit up with teasing delight.

"Sebastian?" Bravat asked, uncharacteristically shy. "Don't disappear on me again, okay?"

The demon smiled and touched a hand to his scarred, bruised heart.

* * *

 _"Earlier this afternoon, riots in Montgomery were disbanded when police were forced to use firehoses to subdue the crowds. Several arrests were made, with violent resistance by colored protestors. The fight over the Civil Rights Act and over school integration continues here in New Orleans, with many whites leaving the city for the suburbs. No reports of riots yet, but stay safe out there, folks. Turning to sports..."_

Bravat clicked off the radio. He'd seen the protestors—all white—outside the school a few blocks away, screaming about integration. And it certainly did seem like there were more "for sale" signs these days. He sighed, sipping a glass of vodka and checking his watch. 6:52.

Maybe, Bravat thought as he dressed, he'd be there tonight. At first he wouldn't even admit it to himself, but he'd begun frequenting Churchill's, hoping Sebastian would show up at last. No luck, and then Bravat had given up all pretense and begun going there every night.

Just in case, he tucked the knife that Sebastian had called the _Misericordia_ , wrapped in a scarf, into his pocket.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen, but the sun was still bright and hot, the air still steamy from the afternoon's shower. By the time Bravat slipped into the mercifully air-conditioned bar, he was veiled in a thin layer of sweat.

He stationed himself at the table in the back corner, surveying the room over the rim of his vodka glass. _When did I start drinking so much?_ Bravat thought idly, knowing the answer. He lit a cigarette, having abandoned his pipe after Sebastian had insulted it so soundly.

A tense hour passed; nothing.

 _God damn it, Sebastian. I asked you not to disappear again._

The place seemed quieter, more subdued than usual; only a handful of tables were occupied, and there was still plenty of seating at the bar. Even the radio behind the bar seemed to have been turned down. Bravat wondered if people were too afraid to step outside anymore, with the increasingly violent news cheerfully reported each day.

He decided to leave; Sebastian wasn't going to show up, and the somber atmosphere was depressing him.

The air had cooled, but the humidity was still thick and heavy. Bravat decided to go for a walk; a long, sweaty, cathartic walk.

He tilted his head up toward the stars, trying to pick out Sagittarius. The center of the Milky Way lay toward the constellation, that heavy dead star pulling the galaxy in on itself. He thought of Sebastian, of the hot and wild kiss they'd shared.

Bravat was staring up at the sky, not paying the slightest bit of attention to where he was going, and he smacked straight into someone.

"Oh! Excuse me, I—"

The woman—the demon—he'd crashed into had long hair, pale silver gathered into a loose plait slung over her shoulder, contrasting very prettily with her black dress and knee-high boots. The moonlight glinted off the enormous black sword she'd drawn from a holster and raised up to her shoulder, preparing to swing.

* * *

"Holy shit, Hannah?!"

She seemed as stunned as Bravat, freezing mid-swing. "You know who I am?"

"More than that. You're a demon, aren't you?" The _Misericordia_ lay forgotten in his pocket.

She didn't reply, but lowered her sword. Her beautiful face was sad as she looked away.

Bravat tried again, more gently. "You're the one who's been killing people, right?"

Hannah looked at him sharply. "Your police and your citizens are the ones killing people. _I_ am the one serving justice."

"Those people were innocent." Bravat edged away from her; he was wary of angering someone with such a large sword.

"Innocent," she said bitterly, looking down once more as she spoke. "They spend their days screaming at children, they trample their brothers and sisters into the dirt and abandon them, they kill and hurt and destroy."

"What do you mean?" Bravat asked. Her voice was like how he'd imagined a mermaid's voice might sound, beautiful and haunted.

She was silent again, but Bravat thought he knew what she meant. "Someone killed my neighbor John," he said quietly. "He was a really decent guy, and someone killed him for the color of his skin. I found him. It was awful."

A single tear dripped down her face, liquid diamond in the moonlight. "They killed my Luka," she whispered. Her hand tightened around the handle of her sword. "They killed my little Luka, and _NO ONE CARED!"_ her voice rose into a shriek at the end.

Bravat looked around urgently, but the deserted street was quiet, her histrionics unnoticed. Nervously, he placed a hand on her shoulder, patting it awkwardly. "I'm sorry," he said.

Then, something happened that Bravat could never have predicted: the demon pulled him in, hugged him tightly, then turned and fled down the street.

He watched her go, making no move to chase her.

* * *

 **A/N: My thanks to abyweisskurodemonology on tumblr for their excellent research on Hannah.**


	7. Chapter 7

The microfilm reader hurt Bravat's eyes after several hours pressed against it, poring through months of newspapers. Beside him was a piece of paper and a pen, borrowed from the front desk, random notes scrawled across it.

 _1 Susan P. L.―HUSBAND suspect in lynching!_

 _2 Rachel H. —3 kids― PTA―protests?_

 _3 Nancy K.―2 kids― PTA―protests?_

 _Luka—Alexander D.?_

Try as he might, he'd been unable to turn up anything on anyone called _Luka._ He had, however, found something in a police blotter, dated about two months back:

 _Lower 9th Ward—Homicide—at 4:33 AM on June 21st, Alexander Dupree was arrested in his home for the shooting of a child. The victim's name was not released._

Could this be it? There were so many nameless and faceless murders in New Orleans that it was doubtful, but the timeline seemed right.

He'd trawled through the next few weeks of obituaries on a hunch—sure enough, a few weeks later, another little corner of print for Mr. Dupree:

 _Alexander Dupree died while awaiting trial for the death of a child whose name has not yet been released. His death is believed to be a suicide. He leaves behind his mother, Lucille Dupree._

Bravat knew it couldn't have been a suicide; it had to have been this Luka he'd killed, and it had to have been Hannah exacting revenge. So maybe she wasn't crazy, if she was smart enough to make it look like a guilty man's suicide.

Another smart move: her first victim's husband, the first one to be questioned in a murder case, ended up as a suspect in the lynching of another unnamed victim. His case was as yet ongoing.

So, the smart thing to do would be to assume that this Hannah had her wits about her.

This nagged at the deep hollows of Bravat's mind: was she worth stopping?

If she chose her victims rationally, based upon whatever sins they committed in the broader strokes of the city's turmoil; if she was targeting the wicked and unjust, who would never know justice: _was she wrong?_

Bravat wasn't sure. The deaths of innocent young ladies were disturbing, sure; but now, Bravat couldn't help but think that there would be little public attention or sympathy if only the young ladies in question had been black.

 _Seeing someone die really changes you,_ Bravat thought. He'd never paid much mind to appearances, but he'd also never had strong opinions on integration or the mounting tension in the city, before John.

He simply couldn't convince himself that Hannah wasn't his problem.

Pulling away from the microfilm reader at last, his eyes burning from the intense artificial light, he collapsed his head into his arms. She'd hugged him. He had a sacred dagger.

"What do you _want_?" he whispered hoarsely to himself. Then: "Sebastian." He needed someone to talk to, and he wasn't sure he could handle another confession.

Nothing happened.

"Well, shit," he muttered. He'd have to go home and perform that whole stupid ritual again. A librarian reshelving books nearby gave him a disdainful look, and he gave her a bashful, toothy smile.

He sighed hugely, pulling his pitiful sheet of notes toward him. Time to call it a day.

* * *

Bravat's cheeks were bright red when Sebastian finally appeared, and he seemed muted and flustered. "Finally," he said.

Sebastian looked down at his black nails, as if inspecting them for flaws: posturing. His back was ramrod straight, tense. "What."

"One, I thought I asked you not to disappear, yet here we are. And two. I ran into Hannah." Bravat was overly casual.

Naked surprise played across Sebastian's face, before he smoothed his expression out into one of bored contempt. Silence stretched out, the crappy old icebox humming loudly, the sounds of the city jangling just outside the open window. He swallowed, an uncomfortably human reaction. "And."

Bravat glared. "You already know, don't you?"

Sebastian put on a rather flimsy expression of innocence. "Know what?"

"What she's doing, and why, you stupid asshole! Why didn't you tell me!" Bravat cuffed Sebastian painlessly on the shoulder. The message of the gesture translated well enough.

"It never came up." Sebastian said, smiling a little flirtatiously. Bravat couldn't stay angry long under the influence of his charm.

"I almost got turned into mincemeat!" He wasn't falling for it. He shoved Sebastian hard. " _Tell me_ shit like this, alright?! Either because you like me, or because I own your ass. Doesn't matter which."

Sebastian was briefly dumbfounded.

"Yeah, that's right, I know. My friend Nina taught me—" a roaring jealousy raced through Sebastian—"that whoever summons a demon is its master. " Bravat, still sitting Indian-style, lifted an eyebrow. "Though, of course, we haven't made a contract." He lifted a hand. "Don't worry, I'm not trying to enslave you. Just don't tempt me, is all I'm saying."

Sebastian frowned hugely. "Who is Nina?"

"Really? You have a chance at my _soul_ , and...well, never mind. She's, ah. A, um. A demon slayer." This last bit mumbled, but Sebastian's sensitive ears picked it up easily.

" _You would fraternize with a demon slayer?"_ Sebastian exploded. "The very lowest of the low, who prey on those weakened by the limitations of this realm?! My kind take what is freely given, but _demon slayers—"_ he said bitterly—" _they_ prey on unsuspecting, law-abiding demons?"

"I mean, she did, kind of, um, save me—"

"—who exterminate the noblest of creatures, who wipe out the defenseless lower spirits, who—"

"HEY! Listen to me!" Bravat cried, interrupting Sebastian's bitter rant. Sebastian halted mid-flow, turning wary eyes to Bravat. He continued. "I don't want her to kill either of you. But I don't really feel great about letting her run around, either, okay?"

Sebastian nodded, his heart beating hard. He couldn't help but flash back to the dark times when demons were ruthlessly hunted down.

"I just want her to stop. And you..." Bravat swallowed and averted his eyes. "I...want you to...stay, okay?"

Sebastian was at a loss for words. It was rare for a human to express any kind of affection for him, and it always left him unsettled. And from a human who knew his true nature...

He cast his glance downward. "Fine."

"Whatever, like you don't like hanging around me." Bravat waved a casual hand, dismissing the momentous sentiment. Then he grew serious. "Please. Just stay with me, at least to keep me safe."

An offer Sebastian couldn't refuse; the exorcist played dirty. "Fine."

Bravat grabbed his hands excitedly and met his eyes for half an instant. _"Thank you."_ Then, dropping his hands, the sweet gesture casually lost: "Hey, and, uh. Please don't clean anymore. This place is creepy when it's clean."

The words hit like a punch to the gut; cleaning was Sebastian's best trick. "Very well."

"If you're looking for something to occupy your nights, you can do some research for me. Find out everything you can about Hannah's victims; I especially want to know if any of them have been involved in any protests or anything. I'm looking for a motive here."

Sebastian nodded. "Fine."

Bravat smiled, then yawned. "On that note..." He jabbed a thumb in the general direction of upstairs. "I think I'm gonna hit the hay."

"Good night," said Sebastian, as close to awkward as a creature so self-assured could be. Sentimentality wasn't exactly his forte.

"Night. Help yourself to whatever, as long as you replace it." Bravat tossed over his shoulder.

Sebastian stood still, even after Bravat was gone. Then, for lack of anything better to do, he took the vodka from the freezer and sat at the kitchen table with a clean glass.

He sat for a few minutes, drinking (forgoing the pickles that Bravat favored) and musing on the Greek underworld.

It was said that those who drank from the river Lethe forgot their old lives; drinking the waters of oblivion, they could be reincarnated with no memory of their past lives.

In its own way, vodka was the water of forgetfulness.

The dead and forgotten superstition ached in Sebastian's bones; he could not deny that his old life was lost. Drinking expensive Russian vodka, he was _Sebastian_ , he was Bravat's. The roaming and starving beast he'd been seemed faint and faraway: a past life.

He'd had the foresight to stock up when he'd replaced Bravat's last bottle, and it was without remorse he polished off the vodka from the icebox and cracked open a fresh one.

The exorcist had been partially right; it took quite a large quantity of vodka to see any effects.

His cheeks flushed faintly as he finished the second bottle; the room had grown a little warm and the tiniest bit wobbly.

He wasn't in the mood to do research tonight. He cracked open a third bottle, smiling cheerily at nothing in particular. He'd worry about it later.

He drank, and he forgot.

* * *

The sun rose, and unseen, the Dog Star followed.

Bravat sighed heavily as he padded into the kitchen, where Sebastian was frying eggs merrily, the radio blasting extremely crackly opera. A stack of pancakes sat steaming at his elbow, a bowl smeared with batter lying battle-worn behind them. Bacon sizzled and popped in another pan, grease spattering the stove and backsplash.

Bravat plopped himself at the kitchen table. A plate heavy with eggs, bacon, and pancakes dripping with syrup slid in front of him.

"I don't eat bacon," Bravat said wearily, without looking up. "And I can take care of myself, for Christ's sake."

Sebastian said nothing, but was put out for the briefest second. "Ah." The plate was whisked away and almost instantly replaced by one untainted by bacon.

Bravat stared at the plate for a moment, then took a bite of pancake as he looked at Sebastian with a raised brow.

The demon waited expectantly. "It's good," Bravat offered.

Sebastian seemed to inflate slightly with the praise, but deflated again a second later: "But you don't have to do stuff like this. And you basically trashed the kitchen."

"You said not to clean," Sebastian muttered grouchily.

"Just try to keep things how they are, okay?" Bravat said through a mouthful of pancake. "You don't have to take care of me or anything, but that doesn't mean I want you to fuck up my house, either."

He swallowed loudly and took a large sip of orange juice—fresh squeezed, but he didn't know the difference. "Did you turn up anything?"

For an instant, Sebastian didn't understand the question; the hesitation was too brief for a human to notice, and he covered flawlessly.

"There's little on public record. I'll need more time to get close to friends and family." This was, more than likely, the case anyway.

Bravat didn't notice the lie. "Whatever."

Sebastian cleared his throat and changed the subject. "You had mentioned something about _zombies._ "

"Yeah, I got attacked by one, and that's how I met Nina. Remember?"

Sebastian didn't. No matter. "Of course. Any news?"

Bravat scowled into his pancakes. "Not yet. If they're not _hers_ , I don't really know where to look." He looked up at Sebastian. "But as long as I have your help, I don't need Nina so much."

Sebastian didn't care for the wording of the sentence, but he liked being chosen over this demon slayer nonetheless.

Bravat shifted his surly gaze to Sebastian. "I don't suppose you have anything _else_ you'd like to share?"

Sebastian wasn't particularly embarrassed about lying. With a shrug, he said, "The night I was attacked, that you—" he glanced at Bravat, too proud to admit to being helped—"they were not human. It was a pair of _di inferi_ , gods of death." At least now the exorcist wouldn't think he was some sort of bleeding heart who left enemies alive. "They might have known something."

Bravat sighed heavily, sagging over the table, half-finished breakfast pushed to the side. "Why." The question was addressed toward nothing and no one in particular.

"A _zombie_ is a soulless corpse, correct? A myth of human _voudou?_ It stands to reason that the keepers of souls would know something." Sebastian shrugged, blasé. "I didn't think it mattered at the time."

Truth be told, it was quite fun to watch Bravat react. He was so raw, so real, despite everything Sebastian was; the demon couldn't help but tease him.

"I swear to god, I am going to fucking enslave you. Anything else?" Bravat said, muffled from behind his arms where he'd collapsed his head.

 _I don't remember_. "No," Sebastian said easily.

"Well, help me think, then. So the _di infernes_ —"

" _Inferi."_

 _"Inferi_ , whatever, attacked you, a demon, a buyer of souls. Could be a coincidence, but we'd better assume not. We should also assume they have something to do with the _zombies_ , and that maybe voodoo has something to do with it, too. Right?"

Sebastian shrugged, and Bravat continued.

"So maybe they were working with someone. Maybe someone figured out how to control one of the _inferios_ —

" _Di inferi._ "

"OH MY GOD, WHO CARES _._ Someone figured out how to control a _di inferes_ and made zombies? But...why?"

Sebastian was at a genuine loss and didn't reply. Frankly, he didn't see how any of this was Bravat's problem. "Who can say."

"Both the _di inferi_ and the _zombie_ were near Churchill's," Bravat mused aloud. "Again, it doesn't seem like a coincidence. Maybe someone who works there, or who goes there regularly, knows something?"

Sebastian smiled slyly. "Well then. How about I take you out tonight?"

* * *

 **TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

Once again, the bar was quiet, only a handful of murmuring little groups clustered around tables. A single person sat at the bar, chatting with the bartender. Bravat caught his eye and nodded, holding up two fingers.

Sebastian and Bravat settled themselves at the dusty corner table where they'd first met; a moment later, two vodkas and a bowl of peanuts were placed before them.

"Thanks, man," Bravat said, smiling warmly up at the bartender, who returned the smile and clapped him on the shoulder. He gave Sebastian a rather stiff nod, and returned to his post.

"Wouldn't it be better to sit at the bar?" Sebastian muttered. The band was absent, and the music and chatter weren't loud enough to hide their conversation completely.

"I never sit at the bar, it would look weird. It's unusual enough for me to come here with someone else. Just follow my lead, okay?"

"Hmph."

They sipped their vodkas in companionable silence, casually scoping out the bar. A single lonely succubus lurked hopefully at the end of the bar; no sign of any other demons or death gods.

The humans were mostly black tonight; Bravat wondered if the fear of integration was keeping the white folks at home, afraid of what might happen if they were too friendly with their neighbors.

The aura of fear was palpable, poisoning the city like smog.

 _Fever, madness_.

The quiet was stifling. Bravat split open a peanut shell with a loud crack, slurped his vodka.

"Where is everyone?" Sebastian asked quietly. Even the demon seemed a little on edge in the twilit strangeness.

Bravat shrugged and polished off his vodka. Instead of signalling for another, he approached the bar, leaned against it casually (perhaps he was laying it on too thick; no matter), and held out his empty glass. "Where is everyone?"

The bartender poured him a generous glass. "Dunno," he said. "Been like this for a while now, gettin' quieter 'n' quieter. People're afraid, 'cause of the murders, I guess."

"Feels weird in here, though, huh?"

The bartender grunted in assent. "That's for sure. Miss the band. Their mamas won't let 'em out no more, though, not when all those little kids keep gettin' killed."

Bravat raised an eyebrow. "Kids?"

"Yeah, they won't say nothin' on the news about any black kids, but there been near a half dozen killed. Integration, I guess." He looked at Bravat, a little scornful and sad. "You're alright, Bravat, but sometimes I swear I feel like white people's the devil. Killin' our little babies who never did no one wrong. Makes me wonder if it's worth it, tryin' to integrate. Maybe we're better off apart."

They were both quiet for a moment, the bartender frowning vacantly at the same section of counter he'd been polishing for a good three minutes now, Bravat watching him sadly. At last, he cut to the chase. "Did you know anything about a kid named...Luka?"

Suddenly, a burst of laughter rang out from behind them, and they both turned to the corner table.

Two beautiful women were now flanking Sebastian, laughing raucously at whatever he'd just said. He had an arm slung around each of them, smiling merrily. Bravat frowned massively, and turned back to the bar.

"Say, wasn't that your date?"

His scowl deepened, and a dark blush spread across his cheeks. "He's not my date. We, uh, work together."

The bartender gave him a knowing smile, but let it drop. He grew serious. "Luka, you say? Never knew 'im, but I think he was...Laura's kid? Or maybe her little cousin. She was just torn up when..." He cast a meaningful grim glance at Bravat.

Bravat's heart rate picked up; his hunch was about to be confirmed. "He was...murdered?"

The bartender nodded sadly. "Heard the guy who did it killed himself though. Serves him right."

So that was it; Bravat didn't know who the kid had been to Hannah, but he knew now that he'd been killed, and that Hannah had served justice to his murderer. "Laura's kid, huh?" Bravat didn't know Laura. "I oughta stop by and pay my respects. Better late than never right?" He drained the last of his vodka as more laughter erupted from the corner table. "Another, please, and a round for my idiot friend and the ladies."

Bravat plunked a glass in front of the demon and the two lovely humans, none of whom looked up or acknowledged him.

"So then I said, 'Sure, I'll tell Harry everything.' And I still have no idea who Harry is!"

The women laughed loudly, one of them leaning in and tossing a hand up to Sebastian's chest.

Bravat smiled thinly. "I love that story. Now, if you'll excuse us, ladies, I need to talk to my friend here about something."

The women didn't look at him, but cast fawning glances at Sebastian. "Don't forget to call me," the one on the left said, trailing a hand down Sebastian's shoulder and arm, before the two parted.

They left the vodkas; no matter. Saved them the trouble of ordering another round, and Bravat felt he'd learned enough from the bartender. He took a sip as he sat opposite Sebastian. "They were awfully touchy-feely, huh?" he remarked lightly.

Sebastian arched his brows. "Jealousy becomes you. In fact they were quite informative. Seems like there's a new _voudou_ sect in town, quite exclusive. They're said to have powers beyond anything seen before, though of course this comes second- or third-hand." He drained one of the vodkas and picked up another. "Their practitioners wear a distinctive silver bracelet, I'm told."

"You think that's where the _zombies_ are coming from?" Bravat asked, his irritation forgotten.

"Could be, but it might just be idle gossip. Better safe than sorry, though." He started in on a third glass.

"I don't have infinite credit here, you might want to slow down," Bravat said waspishly. His own head was starting to swim. Nonetheless, he drained his glass and snatched up another. "I found out some stuff, too."

Sebastian paused, his cultivated look of boredom too polished to be anything but false.

"That other demon, Hannah, had mentioned someone, 'Luka.' I think he was a kid from the Lower Ninth, around the corner, who'd been murdered. Dunno what he was to her, but it seems like his death might be the key to all this."

Sebastian frowned softly into his drink. After a long pause, he said, "Do you have the time?"

Bravat didn't wear a watch. He was annoyed at being ignored. "I have no idea. Maybe like 10:30?"

The demon nodded to himself. "Right. Another round, then?"

Bravat sighed hugely. "Whatever, I assume there was some point to that. Fine, but you go get the drinks."

It was nice to sit quietly for a moment, the distant hum of alcohol taking place of the aching anxiety of everything that was happening.

The sound of the bartender laughing, yet another victim of Sebastian's otherworldly charm, was almost too much to bear.

"Quit doing that," he said peevishly, as soon as Sebastian sat, placing a fresh drink before each of them.

"Doing what?"

Bravat glared. "You must realize by now that your little innocent act doesn't work on me. Quit flirting in front of me, it's annoying."

Sebastian seemed torn between his usual puppy-eyed false ignorance and actual thought.

Bravat continued. "I know you're a demon and you don't care about feelings or whatever, but it really pisses me off when you throw yourself at everyone. So, just...rein it in, okay?"

Sebastian took a long sip of vodka and didn't reply.

"I bet you just love that, don't you?" whispered Bravat harshly. "I'm sure you think you're so superior. But the fact of the matter is, I summoned you, and I'm in charge here. So knock it off." He smiled, halfway between a smirk and a grimace.

Sebastian grunted, and sipped his vodka. "So what's our next move?"

"The bartender said that Luka, the one Hannah mentioned, was Laura's kid. So we find Laura, find out what we can. _What are you looking at?"_ Bravat hissed. Sebastian was scanning the room, looking round and round in a loop.

"What time is it?"

"Oh my god. I have no idea. 10:45?"

Sebastian stood suddenly, grabbed Bravat's wrist. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?!" Bravat spluttered.

They spilled out onto the sidewalk, Sebastian surveying the area almost nervously.

Bravat looked around, too, but he didn't see anything. "What are you looking for?"

Sebastian made a final pass, and looked at Bravat at last. "Nothing. Ready to go?"

"I guess so, considering the rather dramatic exit we just made. What are you looking for?"

" _Nothing_. Let's go." And just like that, Sebastian set off, striding confidently in the direction of home, unfairly sober as Bravat's head spun slightly.

"I wish you wouldn't lie to me," Bravat said mildly, trotting up next to Sebastian.

"Yeah, well, I'm not a _djinn_ , and we don't have a contract, so, you know. People in hell want ice water."

Bravat grabbed his arm, spun him around. "So let's do it. Let's make a contract."

Sebastian shook his head before Bravat could even get the words out. "No. Just...no."

"Why not?" Bravat asked, steely, serious. "You know I'm not stupid, and that I know what I'm asking for. Come on, let's do it."

Sebastian suddenly wouldn't meet his eye. "It's not that simple." He looked up at a curtain of Spanish moss overhead, posturing. "Let's go home. Forget about this."

Bravat seized Sebastian's lapels, shook him once. "Fucking level with me. Why won't you make a contract with me?"

Sebastian scowled, but met Bravat's eye at last. "Let go of me." His voice was hard and flat.

Surprised, Bravat obeyed. Sebastian straightened out his jacket and looked away again. Cool as a cucumber. "Drop it. Let's go home."

Bravat frowned, but followed the demon once more. "Whatever," he muttered to himself.

They were quiet the rest of the way home, the cicadas serenading them, a shameless cacophony.

The question nagged at Bravat's mind. "Is something wrong?" he asked, the moment the front door closed behind them.

Sebastian glared. "I thought I said to drop it." Bravat trailed behind Sebastian into the kitchen. Sebastian cracked open a bottle of vodka from the freezer; the damned demon was drinking him out of house and home.

"Yeah, well, I didn't. Just tell me why you won't make a contract with me." He grabbed Sebastian's wrist and looked into his eyes pleadingly. "Come on. Just do me that much. Please?"

Sebastian heaved in a sigh, and cast his eyes down.

* * *

 _Bravat was asleep, his breathing slow and measured, his cheeks rosy. He drooled a little on the pillow, a rich vial of musk cracked open. The room was heavy with him, like a_ parfumerie _. It almost made Sebastian dizzy._

 _He watched for a moment, drunk on the sight of him, the smell of him. Rich, tropical, earthy. Delicious._

 _Softly, hesitantly, he climbed in bed next to Bravat, caressing his jaw softly. He trailed his fingers along Bravat's arm, his waist, hips, thigh. Tracing his shape, memorizing it._

 _He pressed two fingers softly under the exorcist's chin, tilting it up. He tasted him, pressing his soft, unconscious lips open. He was warm and alive, fragile as a violet._

 _Sebastian frowned. Something was missing from the rich bouquet of Bravat._

* * *

Bravat shoved Sebastian, hard. "What the fuck do you mean, I have no soul?!"

The demon took it in stride; he seemed almost abashed. "I told you, I didn't want to have this conversation."

"You weren't trying to... _eat me_ , were you?" Bravat said accusingly.

Sebastian scoffed. "Of course not. It was merely an observation made in passing."

Bravat scowled. "So what does this mean?"

"It means, you have nothing to offer me. So no contract."

"Since when is a soul the only thing that can be offered?" Bravat challenged.

Sebastian frowned. "What are you suggesting?"

Bravat lowered his lids, dropped his voice an octave. "Isn't there...anything else you want from me?"

"You're hardly in a fit position to be offering anything," Sebastian scoffed. He crossed his arms and rested a hip against the counter. " _You_ are drunk as a skunk." The colloquialism sounded as odd on Sebastian's tongue as eloquence sounded on Bravat's.

Bravat mirrored his position, lolled his head over, smiled. "But you want what I'm offering."

Sebastian chuckled and took a deep swig of vodka. "Doesn't work that way."

"Bullshit."

"There are rules. You're not buying secondhand furniture, for heaven's sakes. Binding yourself to a creature of oblivion requires sacrifice. It is no casual undertaking." Sebastian filled a glass from the tap and thrust it into Bravat's hand. "Drink this."

Bravat blinked heavily. "I don't believe you."

Sebastian's head snapped over, his gaze infinite black ice. "Don't you realize what I am?" He strode purposefully toward Bravat, gripped his jaw firmly, and wrenched him forward. Black tendrils spilled out, flowing like heavy fog. His teeth sharpened into fangs, his fingers into claws. "Don't you realize what creatures like _me_ do to creatures like _you_?" His voice boomed through the small kitchen, raspy and eerily mechanical.

He tossed Bravat to the ground, back to himself in an instant. He looked hard at Bravat for a moment, then turned and banged through the back door.

Bravat leaned up on his elbows, a surprised pout writ large across his face. "Wait!" he yelled, about thirty seconds late, and followed Sebastian into the courtyard.

Sebastian was lounging, elegant as ever, in one of the wrought iron chairs Bravat had scrounged from an abandoned house up the street. The cherry of his cigarette burned dark as hellfire. He didn't turn as Bravat approached and sat down with a creak opposite him.

"Sebastian."

He didn't flinch. After a beat, he took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the sky.

Bravat took a deep breath and continued. "I don't want to force you into anything. If you don't want to make a contract, I can respect that. I just want you to stay, okay? Help me deal with Hannah, and with the _zombies_. Please?"

Sebastian tapped his cigarette with his index finger. He didn't look at Bravat. "Fine. Did you know you're overwatering your lavender?"

Bravat glanced at it. "Looks fine to me. Are you...mad at me?"

Sebastian ashed his cigarette. "No." He tapped out another and lit it. It was quiet for a long moment before Sebastian spoke again. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, and his voice was flat. "I shouldn't have done that earlier. I apologize."

Bravat was surprised. He could tell it pained the prideful creature to lower himself to remorse. He would be merciful and accept the apology with grace. "How are you going to make it up to me?"

Or whatever.

Sebastian finally turned to face Bravat, scowling hugely. "How about I _don't_ smother you in your sleep?"

"Deal."

They were quiet then, Sebastian smoking and returning his gaze to the stars. "You _vex_ me," Sebastian said at last.

"Is that good?"

"It's been a long time since someone has been able to surprise me like you have. It's...interesting."

Bravat addressed his lavender plant. Maybe it _was_ a little droopy. "Truth be told, most humans bore me, too. And, I dunno, I've never really felt connected to people. But, um. I do, with you, I guess. So...yeah." He glanced at Sebastian. He cleared his throat. "Um, can I have a cigarette?"

Sebastian handed one over wordlessly. As he cupped Bravat's hands to light it, their eyes met.

They both looked away quickly, embarrassed, unused to honesty. Sebastian breathed out a stream of smoke in a grey sigh. "I'm sorry," he said, all posturing fallen away.

"Me, too." Bravat flicked the ash gracelessly from the tip of his cigarette. He missed his pipe.

"For what it's worth, I was telling you the truth when I said it doesn't work that way. I won't go into it, but trust me when I say there are channels to go through."

"So...if you _could, would_ you make a contract with me?" Bravat asked hestitantly.

"Why are you pushing this?"

Bravat paused, and sighed. "I don't know. Why are you so resistant to it?"

"I don't know."

Silence stretched out between them. Bravat stubbed out his cigarette and stood, the chair groaning as he did so. "Well, we have a lot to do tomorrow. I'm going to bed."

Sebastian nodded. "I'll be out here for a while." He pulled out another cigarette and returned his gaze to the sky. Bravat disappeared into the house behind him.

Sebastian sat, lost in thought, his cigarette burning untouched. The smoke coiled up like incense.

He stood, slipped across the courtyard and out the back gate.

 _She's waiting_.


	9. Chapter 9

Night brought little relief from the stuffy heat; the air was warm and wet as breath.

Sebastian stole through the shadows between the sodium lamps, sleek black against the deep green darkness. The streets seemed hushed, as if the sounds of the city were filtering through from a faraway radio station.

 _There_. Clear and sharp as glass against velvet was an unnatural darkness, a flash of silver. In an instant, Sebastian was behind her, coiling around her silently. One hand around her waist, pinning her arms down, the other around her throat. He pressed his lips to her ear. "Fancy meeting you here."

She snarled and elbowed him roughly, struggling against the suddenly iron grip around her. "Let go of me, pervert."

"Not until you listen to what I have to say."

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," she hissed. Her teeth had become fangs, and her eyes blazed murderously.

Sebastian squeezed her throat roughly, and she coughed hard. " _Listen to me_. I didn't come here to fight you." He released her and she staggered back a step, crouching warily, her hands flying to the hilt of her sword.

He continued. "Actually, I need a favor."

Hannah relaxed, straightening and crossing her arms. "Right. Why should I do _you_ a favor?"

"Because." Sebastian smiled grimly. "I have information that could save your life."

She curled her lip in obvious disbelief.

"You're drawing too much attention to yourself. Quite a few people are very invested in stopping you."

"Get to the point, then," she said impatiently.

Sebastian lifted his hand. "In exchange, I need two things."

"I thought you said you needed _a_ favor."

He ignored her. "Did any of your girls wear silver bracelets?"

Hannah frowned. "You didn't know?"

Excitement spiked within Sebastian; his instincts had been correct. "They were all members of the same _voudou_ sect?"

She tilted her head to the side. "If you can call it that. Their only belief is hatred, and their only higher power their own superiority."

"Where do they meet?"

"Is that your second request?"

Sebastian's face twisted into a frown. "Don't be withholding. Isn't the price of your life worth a few minutes of your time?"

She fiddled with her long braid; it shone liquid in the moonlight. "Is that your second request?"

"Fine, then, three requests."

Hannah dropped her hair and looked at him sharply. "I'm not playing that game with you, _Sebastian_. Tell me what you want and then tell me whatever it is that's so important."

"Fine, fine. I came here as a friend." He grew still and serious. "I heard you spared a human recently."

She furrowed her brow. "Did I?"

"The exorcist Bravat. Purplish hair, sees spirits, probably said something stupid. Him?"

Hannah resumed the inspection of her hair, and said breezily, "You want me to kill him for you? You've gone soft, Sebastian."

"No." He paused until she looked up and met his eye. "I need you to promise me you won't hurt him."

"Why would I? He hasn't done anything wrong."

His gaze was cold iron. "Promise me."

"I promise. That's all?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat and abruptly changed the subject. "Now then. It should interest you to know that there's a demon hunter in Marigny, and she's almost certainly on your trail."

Hannah raised an eyebrow. "You were being a little melodramatic earlier when you said you had information that could save my life."

"You might not remember the Middle Ages, but I do. Her kind are bloodthirsty and resourceful, bent on destroying us. You do not wish to cross a demon hunter, especially not unprepared."

She didn't look impressed; Sebastian went on. "Go home, Hannah. Give up on whatever it is you're trying to do."

She cocked her head to the side. "No."

Sebastian let out a little noise of irritation. "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you."

She chuckled softly. "You fancy yourself so cold, so devoid of emotions. So above all of them." She looked dreamily up at the moon. "But you can't leave this world any more easily than I, can you?"

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Finally, Sebastian bade her a curt good night. Then: "Remember what we talked about."

She nodded, not looking down from the sky. As he left, she melted into the darkness.

* * *

"No way," Bravat said through a mouthful of pancakes, freezing mid-chew. He swallowed loudly, took a large sip of orange juice.

"Indeed. It seems all the victims were members of this new _voudou_ sect that wears silver bracelets." Sebastian had been careful to omit the source of this information.

"That's great! Not only do I not have to hand over an arm and a leg to Madame Gauthier, but that means I can go to Nina!"

"Not quite. We still can't prove that they are responsible for the _zombies_."

Bravat pushed away his plate, leaving a sticky trail of syrup along the table. Sebastian wiped it up automatically."Come on, you know it can't be a coincidence. It has to be them!"

"We should sneak into one of their meetings. See if we can figure out how they're doing it, and why."

"You're right," Bravat sighed, leaning back in his chair. "We'll have to figure out where they meet, and when, and how to get in. Shit. As soon as we solve one problem, it creates a million more."

He stood, and Sebastian immediately began tidying as if by compulsion. Bravat paced through the kitchen, too excited to sit down. "Okay. Okay. So we start by asking around, seeing who else has the silver bracelet. We start in the victims' neighborhoods, see if anyone else there is in the cult."

Sebastian didn't respond, but frowned softly at the bowl he was scrubbing in the sink. Bravat halted in his pacing. "Something on your mind?"

He looked up, as if he hadn't realized Bravat was still in the room. "Nothing."

Bravat sighed; he supposed he would have to accept some measure of dishonesty from the demon. He didn't press the point and continued. "Right. Well then, this afternoon I'll go see Nina. Tell her what we've figured out, see what she's got."

Sebastian nodded absently. A disappointing reaction; Bravat had rather enjoyed Sebastian's possessiveness when he'd last mentioned Nina.

Oh, well. No time to get a caught up wondering why he was being such a pill. Matters were afoot.

Nina's shop had been a whirlwind of chaos when it was empty and silent; during business hours, it was a veritable riot. Assistants fluttered through streams of fabric and tangles of thread as Nina shouted orders, all to the mad background hum of sewing machines.

"Meg! Get me the measurements for those bridesmaid's dresses! Augusta, call Mrs. Ratignolle and tell her that a satin lining will be an extra $30 for the whole order, I don't think she knows what she's talking about. And where are my glasses?!"

Bravat approached her and gingerly lifted her glasses from where they were perched atop her head and lowered them onto her nose. She looked up from the bolt of fabric she was squinting at and halted her machine. "Oh, it's _you_."

"Nice to see you too, Nina."

She set her lips sourly and jutted a thumb towards the back office.

It was as quiet and still as the eye of a storm. The redhead, Mey-Rin, was sitting calmly at the desk, shuffling through paperwork. The din of the shop was muted through the heavy wood door, and Bravat's voice felt oddly loud.

"I think I know where the _zombies_ are coming from," he announced, looking at the women expectantly.

Nina surveyed him coolly. "And?"

She reminded Bravat of a teacher he'd had as a kid; she could give him those same looks that made him feel chastened and foolish. "There's a new voodoo sect in town, with silver bracelets. They're the ones making the zombies. And," he said proudly, "all of the demon's victims were in it."

Nina and Mey-Rin looked at each other meaningfully in a silent exchange. Bravat cleared his throat. "So? Can you do anything about the demon?"

Nina frowned. "We've been out every night searching for her, but no luck. We'll need some help finding her."

"I'm...I don't think that's a good idea," Bravat said, looking away. "Isn't there a way to send her back to oblivion or whatever, or make her stop killing people?"

"Sure, we'll just ask her nicely," Nina said sarcastically. " _Maybe_ , if we knew her true name, and spent about twenty more years devoting ourselves to study, _maybe_ we could banish her. But not only do we _not_ have those things, who's to say she wouldn't come right back to our realm?"

He was starting to feel a little panicky. "I _really_ don't think attacking her is a good idea. She's very powerful, and she has this huge crazy sword..." He remembered his strange encounter with her. "But well, mostly, I don't think she's...bad."

Both women looked revolted at this. "Demons are masters of manipulation," Mey-Rin said. "Beings of darkness. They feel nothing; they exist only to prey on humans."

"I don't think they're all like that," Bravat mumbled.

"Don't be stupid," Nina said sharply. Mey-Rin gave her a stern glance, and she softened a bit. "Demons are predators. They want to hurt you. You have to protect yourself."

Bravat frowned; even though he had nothing to offer Sebastian, the demon had stayed with him. He didn't voice this thought aloud. Instead, he said, "Whatever. But trust me when I say, if you try to fight her, it won't be pretty."

The women exchanged glances again; their faces were set gravely. Mey-Rin gave a small nod.

"Alright. We'll be careful. But we still need your help finding her. Just so we can keep an eye on her."

Bravat briefly described her appearance and where he'd run into her. "It seems like she's targeting people with the silver bracelets. I'm gonna try to sneak into one of their meetings; that's probably our best bet for finding the demon."

Nina looked him up and down pointedly. "Maybe put on something nicer before you do."

"I _like_ this outfit."

She snorted impatiently. "I mean, all the women who were killed so far were upper-class. You'll want to put on something to blend in with them."

Bravat grunted. "Good point." He stood to leave. "I'll keep you posted."

Without Nina at the helm, the shop was much more subdued; he was able to hear the bell on the door tinkle as he left. She watched him solemnly. _I hope you keep your word_ , he thought as he turned and started down the sidewalk. _For your sake_.

* * *

Bravat tugged at his shirtsleeves uncomfortably; he'd been fidgety all evening, ill-at-ease in his scratchy formalwear. Worse yet, Sebastian had managed to slick his hair back and stick him in a black wool fedora.

"Stop squirming," Sebastian ordered.

"These shoes pinch my toes," Bravat complained.

"They wouldn't, if you ever bothered to put on proper shoes."

The restaurant was close enough to be within walking distance, but far enough that the walk was long and miserable. Bravat was slicked with sweat, and had been complaining steadily every step of the way.

Sebastian, by contrasted, looked poised and dapper in his charcoal grey suit and hat. He walked with a natural grace that Bravat, slouching along next to him, couldn't seem to imitate. The demon was also, unfairly, unaffected by the weather.

"I still don't see why we couldn't have called a cab," Bravat grumbled, wiping his forehead.

"It's a nice evening."

"It's a horrible evening, and you're horrible."

Sebastian continued as if Bravat hadn't spoken. "Remember, we're business partners. Try to keep the conversation light and casual, just in case we're overheard."

"I _know_. _I'm_ the one who told _you_ that, remember?"

Still feigning deafness, Sebastian said, "We'll scope the place out for people wearing bracelets; then we'll find a way to tail them, maybe see if we can get them to tell us something about the sect."

"Stop telling me _my_ plan!"

Sebastian glanced back at Bravat. "Shh. We're almost there."

Bravat spluttered angrily, reaching up a hand to muss his hair out of habit, when Sebastian's hand locked around his wrist and froze its trajectory. "And don't mess up your hair," he said sternly. "You look nice."

"Stupid flattering demon," he muttered, but the compliment had met its mark. He settled for rubbing his wrist. He was wearing a heavy old watch that he'd inherited from his grandfather. Well, _a_ grandfather.

He pursed his lips in distaste as they entered the restaurant; the decor was heavy-handed French colonial, all damask paper and washed silk cushions. The tables were enormous, ornate pieces flaked with gilt; they might have even been real antiques.

Bravat had either lost his taste for decadence early on, or he'd never developed one. As a child, it had seemed like they were always tightening their belts, scraping by, or just making ends meet. By the time he was sailing away from New York, he'd become a connoisseur of thrift, scrounging and scavenging with the honed eye and delicate touch of an experienced collector.

He and Sebastian made sure to pointedly discuss "business" as they waited to be seated; the maitre d had eyed them unpleasantly as they'd entered, and Bravat didn't want to get stiffed on a table.

Luck was on their side; not only were they close to an air conditioning vent (Bravat could admit to himself that the shellac of sweat he'd entered with might have contributed to the maitre d's upturned nose), but they were seated in the center of the restaurant, with a 360 view of the other diners.

The heavy rugs and overstuffed upholstery muted the clinking of silverware and murmur of conversation; he knew it was all in his head, but Bravat imagined he could hear the tinkle of silver bracelets. He scanned the room eagerly.

"It's really dim in here," he muttered, disappointed. It was difficult to make any of the customers out clearly.

"There are at least three of them in the dining room," Sebastian responded, keeping his voice low.

"Oh yeah, demons are allergic to silver!" Bravat whispered.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Every table has a candle. They glint in the light. And, for the record, you're thinking of vampires."

As the waiter approached, Bravat waved a hand, and spoke at full volume. "You're full of it, Sebastian. You'd be lucky if the merger passes, with the way the board's been voting lately."

Sebastian's eyes flickered minutely, but he picked up the charade. "We'll discuss this later." He listened patiently to the waiters wine recommendations, then ordered two glasses of what Bravat assumed was very expensive scotch.

He glared at Sebastian, who shrugged. "Better safe than sorry."

After a quick, furtive glance around them, Bravat whispered, "So who has the bracelets?"

Sebastian darted his eyes to a table behind Bravat's left shoulder. "A couple behind you, and a woman to my left."

Bravat made a pouty expression. "Real specific."

"Don't worry, I'll make sure we leave here with a bracelet-wearer. You don't even have to help me tail them, really."

Bravat's frown deepened. "So you just brought me here as a prop?! No way. This was my plan, and I'm coming with you."

Sebastian sighed, resigned. "Fine. But at least permit me to take the lead, as, forgive me, I am more experienced in these matters."

"Yeah, yeah." Bravat began to study the menu with a dispassionate eye when a thought struck him. "Hey, wait a minute. You're a demon," he whispered. "How can you eat food?"

Sebastian looked at him oddly. "I can eat food. My sense of taste is different, but it won't hurt me to eat or drink anything."

Bravat was a little embarrassed. "Oh."

"You don't really know anything about demons, do you?" Sebastian leaned back in his chair, amused.

"Well, why would I?" Bravat said defensively. "Besides, you still don't know that much about humans."

"I know enough," Sebastian said smugly.

"Like what? That you're so much better than us? Give me a break. I—" Bravat swallowed the end of his sentence hastily as the waiter placed two little glasses of liquor in front of them.

"Would you gentlemen care to hear our dinner specials?" The waiter spoke with a posh accent that was most certainly false. It made Bravat want to be boorish out of spite.

"No." He downed his scotch in a single dread swallow, barely masking a full shudder. "But we _will_ have another round."

The waiter didn't flinch, and whisked away the empty glass. "Certainly." Bravat half expected him to bow.

Sebastian looked bored. "If you're trying to embarrass me, it won't work."

"Not everything is about _you_. What's the situation with the bracelet wearers?"

"We still have a few minutes."

Bravat took a sip of scotch and grimaced hugely. "It's too bad that manly types drink poison."

Sebastian shot him a sharp look before he resumed his surveillance of the dining room. "You do realize that I'm trying to keep you from being thrown in jail, or worse, right?"

Bravat looked down into his drink sheepishly, resisting the temptation to rumple his hair.

Suddenly, Sebastian stood, the movement as quick and graceful as a darting snake. "Time to go." He tossed a $50 bill onto the table, probably making that stupid waiter's night, as Bravat fumbled out of his chair.

Sebastian's gaze was fixed on a nondescript couple, maybe in their 50s or 60s, strolling arm and arm through the door and drifting down the sidewalk. The man helped the woman, resplendent in a bottle-green dress, into a shiny car at the curb.

Sebastian muttered something under his breath; Bravat caught a few choice swear words in Latin (the first things he'd looked up, naturally). His laughter was cut short when Sebastian scooped him up, bridal-style, and tore down the street after the car.

His protests were lost as the wind tore the words from his lips and stung at his eyes; he could have sworn, however, that he heard a smug little laugh.

* * *

 **A/N: A note on geography: Marigny is a neighborhood in southeastern New Orleans, east of the French Quarter on the Mississippi. The story is primarily set along the river, roughly between the Lower Ninth and the French Quarter and a few of the neighborhoods to the north. A quick glance at a map of the 73 official neighborhoods might give a better idea of the setting.**


	10. a note from the author

**First off, sorry for the long and unplanned hiatus.**

 **A few months ago, I attempted suicide.**

 **Following the heels of a crushing, difficult semester, I lost my dog in a traumatic accident.**

 **I haven't had it in me, and I'm sorry. For those of you still reading, you have my thanks and my love.**

 **I'm currently in intensive outpatient psychiatric care. As my schedule settles down, I will hopefully have more time and energy to write.**

 **See you soon.**


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